


Till Death Do Us Part (And Somehow That Seems To Be Sooner Than Expected)

by coconabanana



Series: Till Death Do Us Part [1]
Category: Inception (2010), Mr. and Mrs. Smith (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 63,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconabanana/pseuds/coconabanana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur, an assassin, and Eames, who incidentally is also an assassin, met with each other, they felt sparks of explosion that had little to do with firearms. They fell in lust, they fell in love, and they got married— the complete set. They even got the house with the white picket fence. But marriage is not an easy thing to do. Especially when the people involved have the kind of career that seems to taunt death to do them part. Oh, and the fact that they keep some little things (like, well, the fact that they take people’s lives for a living) secret only puts another strain to their marriage. So amidst the secrets, missions, betrayals, and the pot of gloxinia (yes, the gloxinia <i>is</i> an important plot point), Arthur and Eames try to keep their marriage life… not really normal but as-far-away-from-extraordinariness-as-possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Take You

**Author's Note:**

> Mr.&Mrs. Smith AU. Written for [Inception Big Bang Challenge 2011](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_bang/). Co-written with [slashy_lady](http://slashy-lady.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Beta-readers: [chocobo_ed](http://chocobo-ed.livejournal.com/), [lemniciate](http://lemniciate.livejournal.com/), [frames_in_aria](http://frames-in-aria.livejournal.com/), & [kupodesu](http://kupodesu.livejournal.com/).

  


  


* * *

  


  
  
_I take you to be my wedded Husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward,  
for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,  
‘till death do us part_   


Nothing really prepares Arthur for this day.

Or maybe he should have seen this coming when Mal told him she’d arranged for him and Eames to have some consultation sessions with her father, a renowned marriage counsellor. He knows Mal’s father has always been successful in helping his clients sort through their problems.

But really, this is unnecessary. Like he and Eames need marriage counselling, hah!

“Well, here we go, boys,” says Miles. “Welcome to your first session. How are you both doing today?”

Arthur fidgets in his seat, straightens his tie and fixes his gaze on the painting hanging on the wall behind the desk. From the corner of his eye, he can see Eames leaning on his sofa, and crosses his right leg over the left.

“Tell me again; why are we doing this?” Eames asks Miles, tapping his finger on the small table separating his sofa from Arthur’s. “Arthur, do we really need to do this?” he turns to Arthur and back to Miles. “Mal put us up to this, just so you know.”

Arthur sighs and smiles apologetically to Miles, if that small tug on the corner of his lips can even be counted as a smile. He reaches out to Eames’ tapping left hand and clutches it. “Stop that and just answer the question,” he says without turning to Eames. He feels Eames’ fingers interlace themselves around his.

“I have a degree in bloody Psychology…” He hears Eames mumble.

Miles gives the pair an understanding smile. “You can blame Mal for this, Mr. Eames,” he says. “Nevertheless, you didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to and yet, here you are.”

Eames clears his throat and tightens his hold on Arthur’s fingers. “Yeah, we didn’t have to do this but… you know… Mal put us up to this.”

“You know she can be really persistent when she wants to,” Arthur says.

“She’s my daughter, of course I know, Arthur. Well, the sooner we start this session the sooner you can go home.”

“Of course. Let’s get started,” Arthur says, taking his hand back from clutching Eames’. Fortunately, the tapping doesn’t continue. Arthur hates how much Eames likes to fidget.  
“All right, first question, how long have you two been married?”

“Four years,” Eames answers confidently.

“…Five,” Arthur says. Miles gives him a sympathetic look, which looks exactly like the one Mal gave him a couple of weeks ago when he said _Eames and I don’t need any marriage counselling, for God’s sake, Mal._

“Uh, yes, five,” Eames rectifies his answer.

“On the scale of one to ten, how happy you are as a couple?”

“Eight,” Arthur answers automatically.

“Wait, wait. One as in really happy, and ten as in bloody miserable, or the other way around?” Eames asks.

Arthur’s eyebrow twitches for a second. Miles’ smile is still intact. Arthur doesn’t know he could still smile like that in this situation.

“Just respond instinctively to the question,” Miles says patiently.

“Oh, okay.” Eames turns to Arthur. “Ready?”

Arthur nods.

“Eight,” both of them say simultaneously.

Miles jots down something on his notepad and turns up to look at them again. “On the scale of one to ten, how happy would you say your partner is?”

“Eight,” Eames answers.

“Wait… Are we allowed fractions?” Arthur asks.

“Instinctively, Arthur,” both Eames and Miles say.

Arthur clears his throat and leans back a bit. “All right, I’m all set. Ready?” He turns to Eames.

“Ready.”

“Eight,” both of them say again.

One of Miles’ eyebrows quirks up and Arthur gives him an uncomfortable smile while Eames gives him his most charming one.

“How often do you have sex?” Miles continues.

Something clogs up in Arthur’s throat and he freezes in his seat. He could feel Eames is freezing in his as well. “I-I don’t understand the question,” he stutters.

“Yeah, I’m a little bit lost here. Is this a one to ten thing?” Eames asks.

“Right. I mean, if it is, does ‘one’ mean ‘not much’ or ‘one’ as in ‘nothing’? Because strictly speaking zero would mean nothing.”

“Exactly. And if we don’t know what one is, what’s ten?”

“Right. Ten as in…” Arthur clears his throat and looks into the painting hanging on the wall again,”…you know.”

“Constant. Unrelenting.”

“Twenty four seven. Without a break. For anything…”

“Not even to _eat_.”

Arthur can see Miles is trying hard not to roll his eyes. So Arthur shuts his mouth and hopes Eames does as well. He does.

“This is not a one to ten scenario. It’s a straight question. How often do you have sex?” Miles asks again.

It feels as though someone is pushing the ‘pause’ button and Arthur can’t even move much more answer the question. Because truthfully, he doesn’t even remember the last time he and Eames had sex. Neither does Eames, it seems, if his lack of answer was any indication.

“How about this week?” Miles asks again after twenty painful seconds of silence.

“Uhm… Including the weekend?”

Arthur wants to strangle Eames for asking that.

“Including the weekend.”

Another bout of awkward silence and Miles sighs. “All right, well… describe to me how you two first met.”

Finally, a question that he could answer without falling into a lapse of awkward silence. “It was in Kenya,” Arthur says, smiling wilfully at the memory and looks down to his lap to hide it.

“Mombasa,” Eames corrects. “Four years ago.”

“… _Five._ “

“Right, four or five years ago.”  


* * *

  
 _Mombasa, Kenya, four or five years ago…_

It was a really hot day. Eames was relaxing at the hotel’s lounge nursing his drink (ice tea). His plain white flannel shirt was unbuttoned halfway and his shades perched on his head. The large ceiling fan up above did nothing to quell the summer heat. There was a small ruckus in front of the hotel and Eames could see several men in police uniforms talking to the bellboys.

One of the receptionists walked out from behind the desk and approached the crowd. Eames stopped him when he passed the lounge area.

“I’m sorry, but what’s happening?” Eames asked, pointing to the crowd in front of the lobby.

“It seems a government official was killed today,” the front desk clerk answered. “The police are rounding up tourists who travel alone. Are you alone, sir?”

Eames didn’t answer. He stood up when the police swarmed into the lobby and starting to question every guest. Eames drank down his ice tea and prepared to leave, his right hand resting on the gun tucked behind his back, under his coat, turning off the safety. He stopped short when his eyes locked with another pair of bright brown eyes, belonging to a man dressed in white pinstriped oxford shirt—untucked with the sleeves rolled up, khaki trousers, and a messenger bag hanging across his shoulder, who had just entered the lobby. One of the police officers immediately drew up on him.

Another approached Eames, “Are you alone, sir?” he asked.

Eames didn’t answer, his eyes still locked firmly with the other man’s. A small nod was exchanged. Turning on the gun’s safety again, Eames pulled out his hand from his back. The man smiled up to the police officer, pointing to where Eames was.

“He’s with me,” Eames says, walking towards the man. “We’re friends.”

The police officers frowned but let them go to question a woman who had just entered the lobby.

Eames grabbed the man’s elbow and motioned him towards the second floor where his room was. They didn’t speak to each other during their walk Eames’ brain was ransacked by the waft of cinnamon, musk and faint smell of sun coming from the man walking beside him. He eyed the curls of dark hair falling over the man’s eyes and somehow felt a sudden urge to tuck the hair behind the pointy ear. If the small coil of fluttering in his stomach was any indication, Eames knew he was falling into a deep shit.

The police had started to knock on the doors behind them. Eames quickly shoved the man inside when they reached his room and they both leaned into the closed door. Eames could feel his heart beat noisily in his chest, from the spark of adrenaline bursting out and from suddenly realising the close proximity between himself and the man.

He looked over to the other man, his heart skipped a beat when the man gave him a small smile resulting in the appearance of a dimple. It felt like seeing the first ray of sun on the hill at the back of his parents’ house.

“Thank you,” the man said to him.

“You’re very much welcome, … uh?” Eames cocked an eyebrow and tried not to look so eager when he offered his hand.

The man looked at Eames’ hand, contemplating, and then he bit his lower lip (Eames had to bite his own tongue to force down the small keening sound threatening to come out of his throat). He took Eames’ hand and shook it. “I’m Arthur.”

Eames grinned and his hold on Arthur’s hand lingered a little bit too long. “Eames.”

\--

When Arthur accepted the job, he truthfully never expected that he would find himself staring into plump lips that seemed able to temp Saints into sin. When he found out that he was to go Kenya for his job, he merely expected the heat and some annoying bureaucracy with the government officials, and, well, perhaps he might have expected to get to see some bits of deserts. But not this… charming gentleman in front of him.

For the record, Arthur was not really fond of the idea of love at first sight, but lust at first sight was another matter. It was simply human nature. And if he wanted to have some fun, so to speak, after his taxing assignment, surely no one could blame him? After all, the guy practically saved him from dealing with those nosy policemen, so it was only polite to thank him.

It only made things all the better that this Eames person was so damn… attractive.

“They’re gone,” Eames told him. He was leaning a tad closer to Arthur, keen eyes inspecting him and a slow smirk blooming on his face. “Good riddance, I’d say.”

“Indeed,” Arthur said. “Thank you, again.”

“Those police officers can be troublesome. Really, one might think that one can’t have a vacation in peace nowadays,” Eames told him. He walked further inside the room before turning his body to face Arthur again. “Though, perhaps they’ve done a good deed this time.”

Raising his eyebrow, Arthur silently questioned his companion. And under his scrutiny, Eames laughed. He had a lovely laugh, so carefree and intoxicating.

“I got to meet you didn’t I?” Eames said with a wink.

Arthur knows seduction when he sees it. And this time, he could say that Eames’ advance was not something that he was going to decline.

Smiling, he approached Eames. “I wonder if I might invite you for some drinks… as a thank you, since you did help me back then.”

Returning his smile, Eames said, “I’d love to join you for a couple of drinks. And perhaps…”

“Yes?” Arthur said, a bit hastily.

“Perhaps we also can get to know each other better,” Eames said. “What do you say?”

Staring into Eames’s eyes, and noticing the meaning laced in his smile, Arthur could see just what he meant by ‘getting to know each other better’.

Smirking, he said: “I say, that’s a wonderful idea.”

\--

“So you’re doing what exactly?” Arthur asked, almost shouting because the bar was crowded with too many people (tourists and locals alike) and the music blared too loud in the background.

Eames leaned closer to Arthur. “Art. I’m an art curator. I own a gallery back in New York,” he answered. He pushed himself away and smirked at the tinge of pink appearing on Arthur’s ear. The afternoon, and now night, had been more enjoyable with Arthur’s company. At first Arthur had been stiff and had wanted to talk much. But after a drink or two, he had started to loosen up.

Eames waved to the bartender and ordered another shot of tequila for the both of them. They had already drunk three shots each and Eames could already feel his body tingling with heat and something else, too.

“I’m an architect,” Arthur said, slurring, almost. “Just opened a firm back in New York too.”

Their orders came and Eames pushed one of the shots into Arthur’s hand. He shifted his barstool a little bit closer to Arthur under the pretence of trying to hear Arthur’s words more clearly.

“New York is a beautiful city,” Eames said. He took his shot and licked the salt on the rim, eyes never flickering away from Arthur’s. He downed the shot in one gulp and reached out to get the lime, but it wasn’t there. He looked away from Arthur to complain to the bartender. The bitter taste of the tequila was biting his tongue. Suddenly a hand clutched his chin and the tangy smell of lime wafted through his nose from those long slender fingers. Eames grinned and turned to face Arthur again.

Arthur had the quarter of a lime in the hand that wasn’t clutching Eames’ face. He smirked and slowly, tantalisingly, bit the lime, sucking the juice. Eames gulped and felt like his trousers were a tad tighter. In a slow but determined motion, Arthur discarded the lime, smiled at Eames and dragged his face forward.

Eames smelt cinnamon, musk, and lime before their lips met. His hands moved around to Arthur’s waist, dragging him closer. He closed his eyes and relaxed when Arthur’s fingers gripped the back of his neck tightly. The kiss was a little bit sloppy and wet, with Arthur’s tongue lapping his lips and literally fucking his mouth. He tilted his head to allow their lips to move and fill any gaps, letting Arthur dominate their kiss while he settled to enjoy the tingling heat coiling in his stomach and slowly making its way down to his groin.

There was a groan, Arthur’s. And somehow Arthur had moved to sit on his lap, body flushed against his, and his arms circling around his neck.

Perhaps Eames was a little drunk and maybe if they were both sober, the thought of taking this snogging session back to his room wouldn’t sound this appealing. Nevertheless, when they broke the kiss for air and he looked into Arthur’s eyes, their foreheads resting against each other so that he could see the dimples formed from the big smile Arthur was sporting right now, somehow he just knew.

“I can hear your heart racing, Arthur,” he whispered. With every syllable his lips touched Arthur’s, and he couldn’t care less about the people wolf-whistling and murmuring around them.

“Save those corny lines for other times when I want romance.” Arthur nipped Eames’ lower lips. He pulled Eames into another searing kiss. The kiss was full of want and need and lust and everything else.

“So you dare to think there would be a next time?” Eames said in between peppering Arthur’s jaw with open mouthed kisses.

“Depends.” Arthur grabbed a hold of Eames’ short hair and tugged him away from his throat. “Want to take the dare?”

“Oh, yes, and I will blow your world so thoroughly you’ll always crave for my touch afterwards.”

“Like I said, save it.” Arthur smirked devilishly. “And just prove it,” he breathed into Eames’ mouth.

“Cross my heart.”

The smirk turned into a softer smile. Eames felt his chest fill over the brim with the heat radiating from that smile and couldn’t help but grin.

They started to close the distance between their mouths again but stopped short when a small cough was heard. They both looked over to the source of the cough and were faced with a flushed bartender, who was trying to look away from them.

“My apologies, sirs,” the bartender said. He cleared his throat, “I don’t mean to disturb you both but, could you please take this elsewhere?”

Eames blinked when Arthur let out a small laugh and buried his face in his neck. “Take me to your room, Mr. Eames,” he whispered into Eames’ ear.

Eames was too happy to say no and he quickly shoved more than enough bills to cover for their drinks. He took Arthur’s hand and dragged him out of the bar.

The sound of Arthur’s laugh echoed along the hallway back to Eames’ room. He chanced a look back and once again felt his heart burning.

Maybe it was too fast, too much like a whirlwind, like a storm that quickly came and gone, but Eames just knew. He just knew from the first time he saw Arthur, that _he_ was the one.

\--

Arthur woke up in a tangle of sheets. The sunlight streaming in through the curtains made him feel reluctant to open his eyes. His head was pounding and he felt his stomach churn when he pulled himself up. It also felt like something had crawled into his mouth and died, three days ago.

Slowly, he cracked an eye open and winced as he shifted. Pain shot through his back to his spine, and up to his head, adding to the intensity of the headache he was suffering. He groaned into the pillow and tried to figure out what could possibly be the cause of all this pain.

Then he remembered. The first thing was that the room he was in was not his. The second thing was Eames, and exactly what was causing his sore lower back. And the third thing he noticed was that there was no Eames.

The right side of the bed where Arthur was sure Eames was supposed to be was cold. Clearly it had been abandoned for quite a long time. He tried to quell the odd pang of loss inside his chest and concentrated instead on locating his clothes. His shirt was rumpled and hanging by the bedpost, his pants were nowhere to be seen, and to his horror, his boxer briefs were draped over one of the bedside lamps.

Arthur gathered the bed sheet around his waist and sat up slowly. The pounding headache was nauseating and the small feeling of rejection was making his chest feel constricted. He was just about to get off the bed when he heard a creak. He looked over and found Eames peeking from the bedroom door. Arthur could feel his face stretch, a happy smile forming. The small constricted pain in his chest was slowly creeping away and replaced by sudden gush of warmth.

“Hello there, gorgeous,” Eames greeted. He opened the door wider and stepped into the room. He was a holding a tray with a basket of breads, two glasses of something, and the newspaper. “The room service is apparently out of service. I took it upon myself to get this for you,” Eames said, putting the tray down on the bed in front of Arthur. He took one of the glasses-- which upon further inspection, was actually a glass of orange juice—and walked towards the balcony, eyes never leaving Arthur’s.

Perhaps it’s because of the bluish bite mark he saw on the junction of Eames’ jaw and neck, knowing that he’s the one who did it made Arthur felt so out of control. He looked away instead, he ducked his head and a curl of his hair fell down. He scowled and puffed out air in the faint hope that it would stay out of his face. It fell back to obstruct his eyes again.

Eames chuckled and Arthur bit his lower lip, trying not to pout. He never pouted. So Arthur took the remaining glass of orange juice and drank a large gulp. It was enough to wash down the odd taste in his mouth and calm the riot in his stomach.

Arthur looked at the newspaper headline, something about the recent demise of a government official. It reminded him that he hadn’t reported back to the Organisation on the completion of his mission. He didn’t remember where he put his bag—inside was the profile of said government official, no one should ever knew Arthur had that in his bag.

He put the juice glass back on the tray and looked around. There’s no sign of it anywhere. He scowled and then remembered. In his hurry to take off his clothes last night, he had kicked the bag somewhere. He bent over the bed, and there it was, still tightly closed and safe. He didn’t make any move to take it or check it, lest Eames would ask about it.

And Eames was still looking at Arthur intently, burning his skin with his eyes. He took another gulp of juice and then he put the glass down, wrapped the sheet around his waist, careful not to knock the tray over. He looked at Eames. Eames looked at him.

Deep inside his head, a voice that sounded exactly like Dom’s told Arthur that he had to get away whilst he could. Another voice from inside his chest—sounding suspiciously like Mal’s—told him to ignore Dom and do what his heart told him to do.

“You stayed,” he said, walking towards Eames. It was a statement, not a question. Arthur had thought that it would be just a one night stand. A mistake. But seeing Eames standing by the balcony, sipping his own orange juice, the curtains billowing around him and the sunlight bathing his whole figure, Arthur didn’t know what to think.

“I stayed.” Eames leaned back on the door frame. “I thought you might be missing me.”

A human’s normal heart rate was sixty to a hundred beats per minute. There were approximately three feet between them, two long strides of Arthur’s feet, and two point three four one seconds from one point to another.

Eames smiled at him, his full and lush lips curled to perfection.

Arthur’s heart was racing. It was beating two times faster. Arthur took a deep breath. He only needed one step and one point four five one seconds to wrap his arms around Eames’ neck and press his lips to that smile. He heard a glass shattering, and then a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him in.

And there was only one voice he heard.

“Oh Arthur…” Eames sighed into Arthur’s mouth, a hand mapping his spine.

That was enough to make something inside Arthur’s chest bloom, and he smiled like he’d never smiled before into the frantic kisses.

\--

“Are you bloody kidding me?” Yusuf slapped Eames’ hand that was trying to reach out into one of his chemical tubes. “And don’t touch anything.”

Eames shrugged and leaned back into his chair again, propping his feet up the table, a contented smile on his face.

“You’ve only known him for only six weeks, Eames,” Yusuf says, scowling through his protective goggles towards Eames’ feet. “I knew my wife for at least two years before we got married. We had friendship as the basis of our marriage. And you and him only have, what? Six weeks? At least give it another six months.”

“Yusuf, my friend,” Eames began, sitting up properly and leaning towards Yusuf. “He’s totally amazing. He’s smart. And his smile,” Eames sighed dreamily, leaning back again. “I love his smile.”

\--

Arthur shifted uncomfortably on his feet, trying to concentrate on shooting the target fifty yards away. But Dom’s persistent disapproving squint kept on nagging him. He sighed and decided if they were going to have this talk he might as well stop his shooting practice. He took off his ear muffs, protective shades and turned on the gun’s safety. He took a seat beside Dom and rolled his sleeves down again.

“Look, I know this might sound crazy for you but would you please stop looking at me like that?” Arthur said. “I didn’t tell you this because I was asking for your approval, Dom.”

Dom’s frown went deeper, “But don’t you think this is going a little bit too fast, Arthur?” He grunted when Mal shoved him away to take a seat between him and Arthur.

“You know me. I never do anything without thinking it through,” Arthur said, more to Mal than to Dom.

“What does he do?” Mal asked, patting her belly. She was pregnant with a first child and she shouldn’t have been in the shooting range. But she insisted on taking part in this conversation.

“Art,” Arthur answered. “He owns an art gallery in downtown New York. I’m telling you, he’s perfect, Mal.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t. Dom said that.”

\--

“Says he’s an architect. He travels a lot for his projects, like me, so it’ll be perfect.”

Yusuf shoved the potato chips into his mouth as Eames fiddled with one empty tube.

“We never really talked about work. But doesn’t matter. I can leave the gallery at any given time. No questions, no demands.”

“What about the sex?” Yusuf asked.

Eames face brightened considerably and Yusuf looked like he regretted asking that question. “There’s _nothing_ quite like it, Yusuf. Nothing.”

\--

“Amazing sex doesn’t mean it will be an amazing rela-”

“You know it will be risky, Arthur, _cher_ ,” Mal said, cutting her husband’s words again and taking Arthur’s hand with both hers. Sometimes, Arthur wished pregnancy didn’t give Mal such bright radiance, a glow which Arthur knew could made him do anything Mal told him to do if she wished it.

“I know, Mal. But I’m sure I can work it out. Every time I look into his eyes I see something familiar. It’s like I know his deepest and darkest secret and he knows mine. But it doesn’t matter…”

“Because you know you and him will be together in any way,” Mal finished for him. She gave him her sweetest smile and Arthur couldn’t help but give her his. A rarity, but this was Mal.

“Oh my dear Arthur,” Mal sighed, cupping Arthur’s face and resting her forehead against his. “ _Mon cher_ Arthur. I’m happy if you’re happy.”

Dom let out a disapproving grunt again but before he opened his mouth to protest, Mal shoved a sharp elbow to his ribs and he shut his mouth.

\--

Yusuf grabbed the empty tube from Eames’ hand and sniffed it. “Aren’t you afraid, Eames?”

“No. Yusuf, I’m telling you; when you know, you know. You just have to trust your instinct. Take a leap of faith. And I’m taking that leap,” Eames took Yusuf’s hand and held it in front of his chest. “I’m getting married, Yusuf.”

Yusuf frowned, he looked at his hand in Eames’ and then to the empty tube in his other hand. “You sure you haven’t been sniffing anything from my tubes, Eames? Because I think you’re not making any sense right now.”

Eames laughed boisterously and let go of Yusuf hand. “I’m getting married!”

“Well I hope your parents won’t have a heart attack. I know I would if I were them.”  


 _Westchester County, four or five years later_

Eames stands rigid in the roadside, one hand tucked deep in his pocket, and the other holding a cup of hot tea. The cold morning air is starting to dissipate as the sun slowly graces the earth with its light. He sips the tea as he eyes old man Gary from three houses down the street walk his golden retriever in front of him. He nods in greeting when Gary waves and the dog barks.

“Good morning, Mr. Eames!” The sudden greeting is accompanied by a roll of newspaper flying right into Eames’ face. It falls to the ground with a slight thump. “Oops! I’m sorry, Mr. Eames!” the paper boy yells as he tosses another paper to the house across the street.

Eames wants to lecture the kid on how he knows fifteen different ways of taking someone’s life with just a newspaper, and throwing it haphazardly into someone’s face is not one of them. He picks up the newspaper, shakes off the dirt and starts walking back into the house.

He stops in front of the door, eyes fixed on the shrubs of gloxinia lined up along the front windows of the house. Arthur’s gloxinias. Or what’s left of it.

The shrubs look like they’re dying slowly. Eames can’t remember the last time Arthur took care of the flowers, but he does remember how Arthur had been so insistent on not letting anyone touch his gloxinias. He would lash out, or in this case, send deathly cold glares to the gardener that Eames had hired three years ago if he even touched a leaf.

Now, the shrubs are in major need of trimming and the dead leaves are scattered all over the ground, quite a contrast to Eames’ meticulously mowed grass. He likes to mow them at least once a week as an exercise. Eames never bothers to clean them up because he knows Arthur would have his hands on a platter and serve them to old man Gary’s golden retriever if he ever did.

Or at least that’s what Eames thinks Arthur would do.

Eames sips his tea again, the newspaper clamped under his arm and his eyes roving around the dying gloxinias. He shrugs and decides he needs to buy a new mower. And while he’s at it, perhaps he could also invest on some all brand new gardening tools. There is a chance that Arthur would take better care of his gloxinias should he see him doing some gardening. And the fence, he thinks as he stares at their classic white picket fence, he needs to repair that thing too.

He takes a glimpse at the newspaper he’s holding in his hand. The front page displays the news regarding the protests against some newly elected politician. He skips that part and promptly ventures to the hobbies section of the papers, trying to see if they have some good tips for gardening…

…and freezes.

Eames blinks. He then stares at the newspaper in surprise as he ponders about how he could easily skip some seemingly important news (who knows: chances are, before long he would get a phone call from a party or another to kill either the politician or the protest instigator) only to look at some gardening tips. Just what has happened to his life? He’s an assassin—a very damn good one at that—yet there he is, contemplating about gardening while he’s reading his morning paper.

It’s so ordinary, so boring; so normal, even. Thing is, he’s never one to deal with ‘ordinary’, or ‘boring’, and moreover—God forbid, he ponders with a shiver—‘normal’.

\--

Arthur carefully puts down the mug of hot coffee on the small round table, right beside a picture frame of him (dimples visible) and Eames (nosing Arthur’s ear) dressed in thick winter coats—a picture of their winter vacation in Canada three years ago. He avoids lingering too long on the picture and proceeds to open the walk-in closet door. He slips on a light blue pinstripe Oxford shirt and pulls on the pants, tucking in the shirt and slipping the braces over his shoulder.

“Darling, your gloxinias are dying,” Eames says as he steps into the closet and starts shuffling around his side of it.

Arthur looks up from his cufflinks drawer. Eames only has a towel around his waist, another around his neck and his skin is still visibly damp with steam from his morning shower. The towel falls and Eames bends down, not to fetch the towel but to pull on his boxer brief.

“Really?” He says, before returning to deciding which pair of cufflinks he’s going to wear today. The platinum D&G pair Eames gave him as a birthday gift (among other gifts) two years ago look amazing with the silver Cartier watch Mal sent him as third anniversary gift. He takes the cufflinks out and pushes the drawer shut. He moves to the tie rack as Eames—pants hanging only by his hips—passes him to go to the belt drawer.

“Yes. Do you want me to trim it?” Eames asks, rummaging around Arthur’s braces, pulling out a black leather belt

Arthur turns around, one eyebrow rising. Eames is pulling the belt through his pants belt loop as he looks up to Arthur and, noticing Arthur’s disapproving expression, shrugs his shoulders.

“Okay. Don’t touch your flowers, I know.” The way Eames is saying the words makes Arthur want to just burn the flowers to ashes. “But you do need to do something before it dies, Arthur.”

“I will. Next weekend.” Arthur turns back and starts buttoning up his shirt. He takes the cufflinks, watch, waistcoat, tie and the suit jacket and walks out of the closet. He places them on the still unmade bed.

“So what do you think of Dr. Miles?” Arthur asks as he fastens the cufflinks. His movements stop when he looks at the platinum band on his ring finger. He turns it around with his thumb, remembering how it felt when Eames had slipped it onto his finger. He could feel the forged letters inside—Darling, in Edwardian Script font—grazing his skin. He closes his eyes and shakes his head and starts knotting his tie into a perfect Windsor.

“He’s okay. I think,” Eames answers from the closet. “He seems very nice.”

“He’s Mal’s father.”

“Indeed he is. I know you love Mal and will always sing her and her family praises, darling.” Eames emerges from the closet, fully clothed. But he’s wearing that bright orange pinstripe shirt Arthur hates so much. He’s rolling the sleeves up his elbows. “But his questions are a tad wishy washy, don’t you think?”

“I thought you’d know how Dr. Miles works, William? Didn’t you say you had a degree in psychology?” Arthur knows his voice is as dry as the Death Valley and he pretends he doesn’t see the frown forming on Eames’ face. He bends down to tie his shoe laces instead.

Eames goes silent for a second or two before he responds. “Doesn’t mean I would know how a marriage counsellor works.”

“Next appointment is on Thursday, 4 p.m. by the way.”  



	2. To Be My Wedded Husband

“All right now, round two. Here we go.” Miles looks up from his note and give Eames a small nod. “Only this time, you came alone, Mr. Eames. Now tell me why.”

“I’m not really sure…”

Eames leans back to the sofa. He takes a deep breath, smelling the lavender scent wafting from the air freshener. He decides, if they are going to do this, then he will do it to help himself. And Arthur.

“Okay, let me clarify; I love Arthur,” he says. “Very much so. Loved him since I laid my eyes on him four ye-”

“Five, Mr. Eames,” Miles cuts in.

“Yes, yes. _Five_ years ago. I love our life together and I want him to be happy. I will do anything to see his smile again. Real smile. Not that strained or condescending smirk he likes to give me nowadays.”

“But, you see,” he continues, straightening his back, “there are times… sometimes… I just-” He makes a gesture with both his hands that most definitely looks like he’s wringing an invisible person’s neck.

If he is imagining it’s Arthur’s beautiful neck that has always been hidden beneath crisp starched collar, Eames doesn’t share that with Miles.  


* * *

  
Eames looked up to the kitchen window, the monotonous chopping sound never stopping, as Arthur's car came into view. He bit his lower lip and thought about what Arthur would think about their dinner tonight. The dinner that night consisted of French onion soup, chicken cordon bleu, and orange sherbet for dessert. Arthur hated onion with a passion, detested paprika, and had sensitive teeth. And wasn't that ironic, that Eames would be there finely chopping some onion instead of some political dictator’s liver, and that he should be nervous watching his husband coming to the house, when he _never_ got nervous facing some assassination squad.

But alas, Eames was the one in charge of food in this house. He felt like eating food that Arthur hated that day. If Arthur wanted to complain, he could just buy takeouts or better yet, go out and buy something from that French restaurant he was so fond of.

At least that was what he tried to tell himself. Yet the moment Arthur came inside from the back door, his coat drenched in rain water and a tuft of curling hair falling onto his forehead (a scene that would have made Eames melt some months ago), seeing him standing before the kitchen counter and asking, “What are we having for dinner?”, Eames had a brief moment of dread before he could say, “Onion soup, dear,” with a flourish and a smile.

And, really, he did not put the ‘dear’ there to try to placate Arthur. Really. Perhaps if he tried saying that to himself a few more times he would be able to believe it.

But when Arthur's eyebrow rose and his lips strained into a thin line, Eames had to remind himself that he was one of the best assassins in the business’ that makes Eames’ nervousness more effective/evident than simply telling. And if there is one thing that he learned during his years of being assassin, it’s that if things seemed to head in some unfavourable direction, it's time to change tactic. Or, in this case, change the topic of conversation.

“Have you noticed the new curtain, dear?” he tried smiling. And, judging from Arthur's expression, failing. He saw Arthur turning his face a bit towards the dining room, scrutinizing the curtain, and then frowning.

“That looks hideous.”

It was just his luck that changing the topic of conversation only brought him from one trouble to another.

“We've talked about this remember?” Eames said. A scowl was slowly forming on his face. But that was nothing compared to Arthur's.

“Yes. And I said we'll wait.”

“Don't you like the pattern?”

Arthur's eyebrow could not possibly rise any higher than it already was, but Arthur was anything but predictable. His eyebrow rose even more and he looked at Eames with what one would call a 'bone-chilling gaze'. If looks could kill, Eames would be dead by now.

“It's flower patterned,” Arthur deadpanned. “With _purple_ flowers.”

“Well, I thought the curtain would be a good substitution.”

“Substitution for what?”

“Your gloxinia, darling. It’s dying, remember? I thought, since your flower is going to die anyway, why don't we just have this beautiful flower print curtain instead?”

The statement sounded perfectly logical in Eames’ head but once he let it out of his mouth, and saw Arthur's narrowing eyes, it seemed the 'logical' part of the statement had evaporated and went 'poof' somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

“I mean...” he tried to say something, anything, to redeem himself. Arthur was waiting. He was panicking. In the end he merely sighed and said. “But of course... we could still try for something else if you don't agree with my choice...”

“Well, I don't like it.”

Eames wiped his hands using the apron wrapped around his waist and looked away from Arthur. “I'll buy another one then?”

“No.” Arthur tugged at the new curtain with such distaste. “Burn this and keep the old one.”

“Arthur, dear, the old one is getting... well, _old_.” Eames tried to reason.

“That's from my mother, _William_.”

And there it was. First name calling meant that it was the end of discussion.

Eames was forced to give a point to Arthur for using his first name with that kind of tone. But, the little part of him which always laugh gleefully at the thought of revenge no matter how childish it was, reminded him that he would be serving dinner soon. Onion soup, which Arthur absolutely, inexplicably detested. He was really proud that he managed to keep himself from smirking.

“Let's forget about the curtain for now,” he said. “I'm making dinner.”

Eames watched Arthur's gaze travel, taking in the sight of the half-chopped onion and chicken breast. He saw the flinch and heard Arthur simply say, “Oh.”

To his credit, Arthur did not lash out at the prospect of onion soup. Instead, he kept his silence. And when Eames finally served dinner, Arthur still remained silent, not objecting, not even speaking. Somehow that annoyed Eames to no end.

“How's the soup?” Eames asked, watching Arthur spoon the soup with such elegance. And Eames remembered how his mother, once upon a time ago back in the family manor in England, had forced him to sit and learn how to eat with proper manner. He shuddered.

“It is...” Arthur paused, his left eye twitching slightly. He looked up to Eames and gave him a smile. The full frontal condescending smile that Eames hated so much. “It is delicious. A new recipe?”

Another point for Arthur. The score was now two-zero. And Eames was really _not_ amused.

As such, Eames and Arthur ate their dinner in almost perfect silence. Eames asked after Arthur's day. His day had been so-so, Arthur said. And then nothing.

Well, Eames _did_ try. As he cleaned up the dishes, Arthur went to his study and took a call from his assistant in the firm, Ariadne. Eames thought that he had tried a lot of things to mend their relationship and return it as it was before.

It wasn’t really his fault that Arthur was such a hard to please bastard and seemed to make disagreeing with everything Eames said his life’s mission.

He supposed Miles would understand if he told him about their days on the next session and didn’t manage to quell the whine from his voice.

And speaking about next session, Eames thought as he snuggled deeper into the covers, he needed to sleep if he wanted to be able to function well with Miles tomorrow. He had had a tiring day, after all.

“Would you mind switching off the light, Arthur?” Eames mumbled.

“Yes,” he heard Arthur say.

He hummed in reply. Yet a few seconds afterward the room was still way too bright for his liking and he frowned. Half-heartedly, he glared at Arthur, who was reading on the bed beside him.

“I thought I asked you if you’d mind switching off the light,” he said.

“And I thought I told you that I would mind,” Arthur retorted. “I need the light to read.”

Eames gaped. “Well, I need it off to sleep.”

“I need it _on_ to read.”

“I have work in the morning, Arthur!”

“Five more minutes, _William_.”

Eames groaned into the pillow and tugged the blanket up to cover his head.

But Arthur was tugging back. Eames gritted his teeth and let go of the blanket, opting to cover his head with the pillow. He would be getting a nice crick in the morning.

Three-zero for Arthur, and Eames had gone from mildly annoyed to terribly pissed off.

\--

“I just don’t understand him!” Eames whined as soon as he stepped into the back office of the gallery where Yusuf was currently squinting at his computer monitor, typing furiously. There were some small bottles lined up on the table.

“Who?” Yusuf asked, without looking back at Eames even as he flopped down on the rickety chair beside his working table.

“Arthur,” Eames grumbled.

Yusuf gave him a look. Not only ‘a look’, but it was ‘The Look’, the one that he often gave him whenever he was talking about Arthur.

Eames had started to detest that look. Part of the reason was because it was really disturbing to know that his friend had created a look particularly reserved for the times he listened to Eames’ domestic problems.

“Ah…” Yusuf said. He seemed to think for a while before shrugging. It was as if he simply dismissed Eames’ problems, as if it wasn’t worth his time. And perhaps it wasn’t, considering how often Eames had come to him to bemoan his fight slash unresolved sexual tension slash whatever it was he had with Arthur.

Eames, as it happened, did not appreciate the dismissal when he was still wanting to rant some more.

He looked at what Yusuf was doing and saw that it was just a report on how many jobs he had completed since the beginning of the month. Somehow, it insulted him that Yusuf preferred to work on those boring reports than to listen to his latest domestic problems. Friends are supposed to listen to each other’s problems and all that crap.

“Remember to report to the boss about that drug dealer I dumped into the underground sewer last week,” he said with a clearly fabricated tone of voice to let Yusuf know he meant ‘I wanted to rant about my problem with Arthur and you better damn listen, Mister’.

“Okay.” Yusuf’s typing continued for another minute or so before he sighed and turned to look at Eames. “What’s with your _dear_ Arthur again this time? I’m listening.”

Eames frowned at the tone Yusuf was using. “He hates the curtains I picked.”

Yusuf gave him another look, this time it said, ‘no shit, Sherlock! I hate that curtain too’, but he only said, “So buy him the curtain that he likes and move your curtain to the guest room.”

“He hates onion and I want onion soup.”

“Make two kind of soup. That should be a cinch for you.”

“He wanted to read in bed and I wanted to sleep!”

“Buy a bloody sleeping light. Seriously, Ea-”

“We start fighting and he’s just such a-”

“I can help you file for divorce,” Yusuf suggested.

Eames gasped and looked at Yusuf as if he had just that Eames’ mother would be coming the next day. And then his mind took turn to a completely different subject with that thought. His mother would be very disappointed and sad if he and Arthur ever got separated. His mother, who had always been telling him that he should take Arthur with him to every family gathering. The last phone call he had gotten from his mother had ended with a, ‘The last time you came home was when, William? Two years ago! Your sisters all missed Arthur. You better bring him here for your father’s sixtieth birthday next month. You hear me?’

And the thought continued to his father, who was very much displeased when he learnt his only son had decided to marry a _man_ , and also an _American_. One of the many reasons Eames never really wanted to go back to England, other than the endless number of people he had to kill on a monthly basis, was because he couldn’t stand it when his father looked at Arthur with such disdain. His mother and younger sisters all loved Arthur, they fawned over him from the very first day—just like Eames. But his father was a force to be reckoned with. Lord Eames was stubborn and even after five years he still didn’t want to accept Arthur as part of the family.

“Eames! Eames! You still with me?” Yusuf was waving his hand in front of Eames’ face, trying to rouse him from his short reverie.

“Yeah, I just…” Eames sighed and didn’t continue.

“My offer still stands whenever you need it.”

“What offer?”

“Divorce.”

Eames stared blankly at his friend. Truthfully, he never once thought about divorce. Sure, Arthur could be a bit too much at times. Sure, their relationship was rocky , not to mention the fact that he had practically lied to the one who had shared his bed for years, the one whom he had called his husband and… yeah, the one whom he claimed to love more than anything. Also not to forget how he had fought tooth and nail against his father to marry Arthur. But a divorce?

Perhaps noticing Eames’ discomfort, Yusuf shrugged and turned back to his work without mentioning anything more about the divorce idea. But Eames could not have that luxury. He could not just go back to his work. He could not stop thinking.

And, with a cold dread settling in his stomach, he started contemplating if it was better to just end the marriage before he revealed his true occupation to Arthur in the worst possible way.  


* * *

  
“Mr. Eames…” Miles begins, but Arthur holds up his hand.

“Please, Dr. Miles. You can call me Arthur, as always.” Arthur doesn’t tell Miles that he doesn’t like to be referred as Mr. Eames. Not anymore. It’s just like how Eames doesn’t like to be referred by his first name. Something about his family calling him ‘Willy’.

“All right then, Arthur. You came back again. Anything you want to tell me?”

Arthur’s back is rigid. He avoids looking at Miles’ eyes for a full minute before taking a deep breath and starting.

“I am trying to find a way to make things work again. It’s not that there is something wrong. But over the years I feel our relationship has progressed onto an altogether higher plain.”

Miles nods and writes on his notes.

“And then there are those... hideous shirts,” Arthur continues, shuddering.

Miles has a look of mild puzzlement. “Shirts?”

“He had these...” - Arthur gives a small shiver - “...paisley shirts... in different colours. I swear he was not this fashion-blind when I married him!”

Arthur takes a deep breath and sags on the sofa. He tries to calm himself because it won’t do to have another small outburst in front of Miles. “It's just… it’s easy to fall in love with Eames. What's hard is to _be_ in love with him.”  


* * *

  
There was a time, a long, _long_ time ago, when the first thing Arthur would do as he woke up every morning was to smile. He would turn his head a bit and see his husband sleeping beside him, if he was lucky. Sometimes Eames would get up earlier, but on those rare days when he was sleeping late beside him, Arthur never failed to smile. He would inhale the scent that assaulted his senses. The scent of sweat and sex and musk and that hint of citrus from Eames’ shampoo. And he would think about how perfect his life was.

That was in the past. Now, Arthur could not even remember what Eames' hair smelled like.

Back then, they would always wake up tangled in each other’s limbs, the bed seeming too big even for the two of them.

Now, they always woke up on different sides, a huge space between them; the bed didn’t seem big enough.

Now, the first thing Arthur did upon waking up was to go straight to the kitchen and make the strongest coffee with his precious French press (a gift from Marie, Mal’s mother), taking care to remember to boil the hot water for Eames' morning tea. Because, even amidst this... 'cold phase' of their relationship, Arthur _did_ try to compromise with one thing or another.

But even Arthur couldn't compromise on every single thing.

As soon as he stepped back into their room, he saw one of Eames' more hideous purple paisley shirts on the bed. There was the sound of running water from the bathroom. Eames was showering. And there's that hideous 'thing' on the bed, on _Arthur's bed_.

He tried to count from one to ten. And when that failed, he tried to count from one to one hundred. He was just up to fifty three when the bathroom door opened and Eames, with a perfectly innocent smile, greeted him good morning and put that hideous shirt on.

“You...” Arthur started, his whole body shaking. “Where are you going wearing that... that abominable thing?” He pointed to the shirt, now resting happily on Eames' broad shoulder. The paisley pattern looked like it was laughing at Arthur.

Eames looked at his shirt and then back to Arthur. “Work...?”

Arthur was seething. “Don't you have any other shirts you can wear?”

“But I love this one.”

Arthur was trying hard to pretend that he didn’t hear that statement.

Eames made it difficult when he continued. “It's so comfortable. And it looks nice on me,” Eames said. “Don't you think so?”

“No,” Arthur said, exasperatedly. He stomped into their walk in closet and go to Eames' side of closet. “At least wear something that won't burn anyone's eyes. I don't understand how your patron at the gallery could even stand it.”

He came out of the closet with a plain black pinstriped shirt and held it out to Eames. It was one of the few shirts that Arthur liked on Eames. In fact, it was Arthur who bought the shirt for Eames but it still looked brand new because Eames rarely wore it. Eames wearing black did things to Arthur’s brain and stomach. Then again, the fluttering had stopped happening some time ago in the distant past.

“Wear this.”

Eames looked at Arthur as if he had just told him to go jump off a cliff. Arthur countered it with a look that he was sure told Eames that Arthur would rather he jump off a cliff than going out of the house wearing the hideous shirt.

“But darling, I need to be vibrant... to show the art world how... vivid and lively...”

“Do it without traumatising me,” Arthur said as he thrust the shirt into Eames' hands. “Wear. This. _Please_.”

Arthur had been reduced to begging. If anyone from his line of work saw this, how Arthur the cold blooded assassin was reduced to begging his husband to wear something more decent, he would lose all his hard-earned reputation. He was the one who supposed to make people beg (for their lives), not the one begging himself.

“No, Arthur,” Eames said, shoving the black shirt back and walking past Arthur, buttoning the paisley shirt up. “I don’t have time to change. I need to be in the gallery at eight thirty.” He took his beige coat from the closet, planting a very, very brief kiss on Arthur’s cheek as he walked out of the bedroom.

Arthur stared at the sight of his husband’s retreating back as he dashed to the front door of their house. The bastard even had the nerve to sing under his breath while wearing that cursed shirt. It was as if he did that on purpose to mock him. That stupid tune and that stupid shirt and that stupid… husband of his.

If he were one less of a less civilized person, Arthur would have stomped his foot hard to the ground and cursed while hurling some nice breakable things at the wall. As it was, he merely tried to calm his breathing, count backward from ten and remind himself that he loved Eames, loved him so very much that he even agreed to fucking marry him and live together with him. So, really, it was not necessary to make a grab for his nice and shiny (loaded) gun to hunt his dear husband and force him to see that purple paisley shirt was in no way a good fashion declaration.

He could feel himself calming down. Definitely, it was not wise to try hunting down Eames with his gun. It would be dangerous, and it would reveal his identity, and it would be mere loss of bullets, and… oh, yeah, not to mention that he was supposedly very deeply in love with him.

The things he did for love.

So, his gun still safely hidden within his secret drawer for now, Arthur opted for a safer choice.

He headed to Mal and Dom’s place, all the while trying to ensure himself that there was nothing pathetic in the fact that he always went to their place to rant whenever he had a domestic problem. They were, after all, the only people Arthur considered as closest kin. He didn’t have anyone but Mal and Dom to turn to.

\--

Mal was tottering around with James when Phillipa launched herself at Arthur—screaming ‘Uncle Arthur!’—as he stepped into the kitchen. The kitchen looked like a war zone and Arthur thought for a brief second how Eames would react if their kitchen at home ever suffered the same fate; he had always been protective over his kitchenette area.

“Oh! Arthur! _Bonjour_!” Mal greeted him when she finally took notice of him. “Don’t you have work? People to kill?”

Arthur couldn’t believe Mal said that in front of her own children. But Mal always did whatever she liked to do and no one could stop her. Arthur only hoped the children didn’t take her seriously.

“I just thought to drop by for a few minutes,” Arthur said. He patted Phillipa’s head and unlatched her grip on his pants. He sat in one of the kitchen’s chair and let out a long, exasperated breath. Mal noticed it immediately.

“What’s wrong, Arthur?” she asked, putting James in his crib. Arthur wondered why Mal even put the baby crib in the kitchen.

Mal cupped his hands and Arthur turned to her, giving her his most miserable expression.

“He always wears that horrid paisley shirt, Mal!” Arthur began his rant.

“He?”

“Eames, Mal! Eames!”

“Oh.”

“He’s just- I don’t even-”

And then Dom chose that moment to walk into the kitchen and stood frozen when he saw Arthur. He looked as if he was observing the situation and Arthur didn’t want to tell him that he was here to brood over his domestic problem. Again.

“It’s just a shirt, Arthur,” Mal said, trying to placate him.

“It is not just _a shirt_ , Mal! I swear I've burnt at least a dozen of those. But they just keep appearing! It’s like they’re breeding when I’m not looking. And then he always tries to annoy me in every way. I don’t know why I married him.”

“Now, now, you’re being unreasonable.”

“You did say you could work it out, Arthur,” Dom said, sitting on the chair opposite Arthur and Mal and scooping Phillipa up into his lap. “And I told you it'd be a problematic relationship.”

“Shut up, Dom,” Arthur seethed.

Mal shook her head and patted Arthur’s hand. “You know, for every relationship, there are bound to be problems. The answer for those problems is to compromise, Arthur.”

“Or a break up.”

“Dom, shut up, or you're sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“What? I should compromise with him wearing those paisley shirts?!” Arthur knew it’s not just about the shirts. There was also the cold shoulder treatment they’ve both been giving each other. He just couldn’t help it. He was tired with having to juggle between these two lives.

“I do have to compromise with Mal about the kids, Arthur,” Dom said wisely, sipping his morning coffee.

“You are so going to sleep on the couch tonight, Dominic Cobb. Remember that _you_ took a great part in creating the kids,” Mal hissed, giving her husband a deadly glare.

Arthur took a look at the pair of supposedly-happily-married-couple before him and repressed his urge to sigh. The fact that he came to Dom and Mal for some comfort whenever he was having trouble with his marriage—due to the simple fact that those two were the only married couple he was acquainted with—should explain the reason why he could never deal with the whole marriage problem.

He watched his two so-called friends giving each other some heated death glares and this time he could no longer suppress another sigh. Considering that his only example of how to deal with spousal-related-problem were Dom and Mal, Arthur personally thought that he had done as well as he could with his relationship with Eames.

With, yeah, the whole lying-about-his-identity-and-personal-life bit notwithstanding.  


* * *

  
“Mr. Eames, I know you feel like you’re the only couple going through this…”

An eyebrow shoots up and Eames purses his lips, cocking his head. “Maybe…?”

“But believe me, right now, there are millions of couples experiencing the same relationship problems as you.”

Eames wants to ask how many percent from that millions is of the same sex couples. Or if any of said millions is actually an assassin posing as art curator. He doesn’t. He says instead, “You think so, Dr. Miles?”

Miles smiles down at him kindly. “Indeed. I have been in this field for quite a while to grant me the right to think so. Basically, every problem in every marriage all comes down to a single thing.”

Eames does not really buy the whole 'every problem in every marriage all comes down to a single thing' idea. That sounds too clichéd even for him. Yet to humour the doctor, he smiles and asks, “And what is that?”

“Honesty,” Miles says, making Eames' smile freeze. “How honest are you with each other?”

He really doesn’t have any answer to that.

\--

“There’s this huge space between us. And it just keeps filling up, with everything we don’t say to each other.”

“How honest you are with him’ Arthur?”

Arthur breathes in, contemplating his answer. “Pretty honest. It’s not that I lie to him.”

“What don’t you say to each other, then?”

“Everybody has secrets. Secrets we keep to ourselves and don’t tell to anyone, right?” Arthur pauses. “What is this called then, Dr. Miles?”

Miles levels him with a look that Arthur thinks looks like one Mal often gives him when she thinks Arthur is being a complete idiot.

“Marriage, Arthur.”

“Then perhaps marrying him was just one big mistake,” Arthur says, sighing and leaning back. He takes a deep breath and looks at the platinum ring resting on his finger, remembering how vibrant Eames’ smile had been when he said ‘yes’ to his (extremely out of nowhere) proposal. He waits for what Miles has to say.

“If it’s that big of a mistake, why ever did you marry him?”

Arthur blinks and thinks ‘even the best assassin could have his own moment of folly sometimes’. Yet, what he says is, “I think someone slipped something into my drink.”

Yes, definitely. Even the most badass of an assassin could be so foolish sometimes. Just look at his reasoning. But, Arthur thinks, at least it does not sound as foolish as, ‘I fell in love with him at first sight’.  



	3. To Have And To Hold

The one thing that Arthur likes from his fake occupation as an architect, is that he’s the one designing their house. In a sense. In truth, it was actually Dom who designed the house for him. But Arthur’s the one who single-handedly oversaw their move into the house six months after their wedding (they spent the first two months of their honeymoon period in Eames’ family manor upon Eames’ mother’s insistence, and the next four months in Arthur’s apartment in New York), and Eames would never question any of his decision about their house at all.

Arthur has free reign over every corner of the house. Except for the kitchen and Eames’ study. They each have their own studies in the house. Eames’—located on the first floor—is full of art pieces, oil paints, canvases, and occasional marble statue. Arthur’s—located on the second floor—is full of books, models of buildings or houses he’s ‘working on’, and it is where he works on his design, or to be exact, where he feigns to be working on his design.

The study is actually where Arthur keeps most of his artillery and other things he needs for his work, as an assassin for the Organisation, a company that sometimes works together with the C.I.A., specialising in disposing people who better off dead than alive. Sometimes, there are some innocents who slip in because they do have to work with every other kind of people from both side of the law. The Organisation never takes ‘no’ as an answer for the mission it gives to its finest assassins and after the first five or ten or fifty, Arthur never bothers to check his—or the Organisation’s—morality anymore. He’s killed people for a living for almost seven years now and morality isn’t something that he needs to worry about.

Sometimes though, Arthur does wonder how Eames will react if the fact that he married an assassin comes into open. Not that Arthur will ever let it happen. As much as leading this double life tires him inside out, and as miserable as it is living a marriage full of lies and secrets on his part, he would never risk ending their marriage that fast. Even without letting the secret that he’s a high profile assassin out in the open, his relationship with Eames is already too vulnerable as it is and would probably end in a divorce sooner or later.

But what he has with Eames, what they have (or had? Arthur doesn’t know) is the only thing that keeps him sane, binds him to the reality of the world, and helps him taking a firm grip on who he really is because after being in the business for seven years, one can never be too sure. Even though their interactions only consist of cold exchanges nowadays (he could not recall when all of this had started), it is enough for him.

Arthur closes his eyes and stops thinking about it. It is not the time to wallow in self-pity or think about Eames. He has a job to do, people to kill.

He secures two [NAA Mini revolvers](http://www.imfdb.org/images/thumb/2/22/NorthAmericanMini22Rev509-1-.jpg/522px-NorthAmericanMini22Rev509-1-.jpg) to each of his two ankle holsters, remembers to slip some extra magazines into his pants pocket, and keeps one [SIG Sauer P229](http://www.imfdb.org/index.php/Image:M%26MSSIGP229.jpg) in the black small briefcase he has to carry, as his undercover for the night is a businessman seeking for a business deal with the mark—an infamous mob leader who sells drug like candies and the head of a major child trafficking syndicate. After making sure everything is concealed, Arthur returns to the master bedroom and takes his black overcoat from the walk-in closet.

“You’re going somewhere?”

Arthur jumps at the sudden question coming from Eames, who’s standing in front of the dressing table, his back facing the walk in closet but his eyes are looking at Arthur over the mirror. In his haste to retrieve his coat, Arthur didn’t realise Eames is also in the room and he is, for once, wearing a plain beige sweater over a plain black shirt. Even though the colour combination is a bit off, it is certainly better to look at than the paisley patterned shirts.

“Oh, it’s you,” Arthur says, trying to sound calm even though his heart is beating quite frantically. No guns in plain sight and he really doesn’t have to worry about Eames noticing the lines of his pressed pants are a little bit off around the ankles. “Yes. I forgot that I left some important files in the office.”

The lie flows out of his mouth without any preamble and Arthur’s movement stops for a few seconds. Lying to Eames about anything and everything seems to have become a second nature to him. And perhaps, it is one of the reasons why their relationship has turned sour as of lately.

Arthur turns back to fastened the coat’s buttons and bends down to tie the shoelaces. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Eames is pulling out the dressing table’s drawer.

“You have to go now? There’s dinner at Mal’s house at eight, remember?”

Of course Arthur remembers, they visit the Cobbs for dinner on the third weekend of every month. It’s in two hours and Arthur’s sure he can finish the job in less.

“I know. I need the files for Monday. I’ll go get them and be back in time for us to go.” Arthur takes the briefcase and steps out of the closet, and goes to the door before Eames could ask anything further. “I’ll see you later,” he adds before shutting the bedroom door.

\--

Eames checks his watch as soon as Arthur closes the bedroom door. It is fifteen past six and if his calculation is right, Arthur will be back in one and a half hours, that’s if he really is only going to take the files from the office and doesn’t take any detours. Arthur is always punctual and he will never risk coming in late to a dinner with the Cobbs. He loves that family to death.

Either way, Eames doesn’t have that much time. He received the call from Yusuf who informed him about the sudden job when he was mowing the grass in front of their house (he had resisted the urge to trim Arthur’s pots of gloxinia). The client wants the target to be dead before midnight and the dinner at the Cobbs is at eight. Eames clucks his tongue thinking about how messy the job will be because of the time constraint.

After making sure Arthur has left the house, Eames goes to the kitchen. The kitchen is Eames’ main territory. Everyone knows Arthur couldn’t cook anything to save his (and Eames’) life. The only thing Arthur can do in the kitchen without setting the fire alarm off is make coffee and boil hot water for Eames’ morning tea.

There’s no downside to this little spot of imperfection actually. Even as he was raised a pampered English boy in a manor full of butlers and maids, Eames spent the last fifteen years fending for himself, cooking is almost like a third nature to Eames and the second being killing people for a living. So he really has no problem being the lord of the kitchen in their house. Arthur, on the other hand, had Mal to feed him, and practically lived off takeouts during the first couple of weeks he and Eames spent holed in Arthur’s apartment.

It was two weeks after the fateful encounter in Mombasa, they had returned stateside and Eames wasted no time in getting to know Arthur better—he even asked for some weeks off from his boss—and he began by infiltrating Arthur’s flat. Suffice to say, it was two weeks full of mind-blowing amazing sex. And in those two weeks, Eames lived off takeouts. He was flabbergasted when he couldn’t find anything edible in Arthur’s kitchen after he got sick of eating noodles and rice and curries for every meal. He had forced Arthur to do some groceries shopping with him, pulled off some magic using the sad excuse of Arthur’s kitchen, and produced what Arthur told him was the best four course meal he had ever had in his entire life. The four course meal had earned him Arthur’s huge smile complete with the adorable dimples, and a night of the most amazing and acrobatic sex in his life.

After the second round, Arthur had idly said to him as he licked off the mess on Eames’ chest, ‘I wouldn’t mind having you cook for me if I get to eat those heavenly cuisine for eternity’, and Eames thought he had been thoroughly whipped. Or falling in love. Or both.

(Two weeks later, he proposed to Arthur. A week later, he had a row with his father right before he and Arthur signed the paper. It was catastrophic.)

Arthur can’t cook. Period. That gives him no reason to touch the kitchen—Eames forbids him to touch anything other than the coffee maker and the kettle—and thus, the kitchen also serves as Eames’ secret armoury. Every cabinet has hidden compartments or hidden spaces in them.

He opens one of the lower cabinets where he keeps some of his unused tea sets. He carefully moves the porcelain cups to the side—ignoring one of the tea pots that has Arthur’s note written with permanent marker on it (‘For your tea addiction, Love, A’)—and opens the lid, revealing two [Browning Buckmark Camper](http://www.imfdb.org/images/2/22/BrowningBuckmarkCamperSS.jpg) pistols and two suppressors hidden underneath the cabinet. He takes both pistols, screws the suppressors on and secures them on the holsters resting on his hips.

The pistols are comfortable weight against his hips, a familiar feeling for him. They are two among his oldest possessions, having accompanied him through the years, for nearly as long as the time he’s being an assassin.

He smirks slightly as he thinks about his current, and by far, most successful, occupation. He never dreamed to be a professional hit man, yet there he is now, carrying a gun to shoot some poor bastard while taking in mind to come home just in time for family dinner. His father had expected—and raised—him to be his successor after all.

It’s so… bizarre in a sense. He has been an assassin for nine, nearly ten years (and his boss has half jokingly told him that he would surely get some plaque done for him on his decennial anniversary—that is if he’s still alive by then) and the last five of them he has spent with Arthur. The dual life he has led might seem really rough, but he would not, could not have it any other way. He could not just leave his job as a top assassin. And he could not leave Arthur. Just no. It is unimaginable.

His life is really screwed up. He often thinks that he should have a special episode in Oprah to talk about his nonstandard life and career choice. But, of course, he doesn’t want to blow his cover so going to Oprah is merely an unattainable dream for now.

But, he thinks, if he manages to do this job and the next properly, the commission that he gets would help him make one of his dreams—in the form of one fabulous Corvette Stingray—a reality. He consults his watch for the last time, taking note of how much time he has, and makes his way out of his house.

Tightening his coat around him, he walks to his car. He smirks. It’s time to face the music.  


* * *

  


It starts like this:

\--

Arthur arrives at the penthouse where his mark currently resides in and tells the two burly bodyguards on the door he comes for a business deal with the boss. Those two burly guys begin a thorough search for hidden weapons but, of course, being an assassin himself, Arthur has done a yet more thorough job at hiding his guns. The guards don’t even realise the SIG Sauer hidden beneath all the papers inside his bag when they tell him to open it.

It really helps that those burly-bodyguard-type always have more muscle than brain. That fact enables him to saunter into the penthouse with all his weapons still perfectly hidden and at the ready. Arthur can’t help but mourn over the incompetence of the people his target hires for bodyguards as he walks past them. It will indeed be the downfall of his target, Arthur thinks.

But Arthur’s not there to sympathise. He’s there to kill.

Arthur steps in confidently, chin held up high and doesn’t exude any nervousness at all. The very first thing he does as he enters the room is to let his eyes roam, taking in all the possible escape routes. He frowns when he realises that he might be forced to escape through the balcony, but his contemplation does not last long because at that moment, the door to the bathroom opens and his target walks out of it.

Arthur does not have the habit of observing his target much. He has done enough observation with all the data he has gotten before going for the kill. He merely let himself aware of their features to help him recognising them, and that is it. This time is also no exception.

He gives his target a small smile, nothing much, only a tug of his lips, but it’s enough to make his dimples appear.

“Good evening, Mr. Durousseau,” he says amiably to his target. Or as amiably as his position needs.

His target gives him a mild puzzled look. “I don’t remember that I have an appointment with…”

Then suddenly all hint of puzzlement clears out from his target’s face. Instead, there is a small smirk growing as he walks closer to approach Arthur.

“I see,” his target says with a heavily accented drawl, his eyes roving over Arthur’s body and Arthur feels like he’s being eye-raped. “That clever devil. He sent you here, didn’t he?”

Arthur has a brief moment of panic as he wonders if perhaps his mission had been compromised. It is enough to make him drop his guard until a moment later he finds a pair of lips already pressed to his. It is at that moment that his brain gave a mental equivalent of a horrified shriek.

“Now, from which agency are you?” his target whispers against his lips. “Oh, God, you taste good.”

Arthur personally thinks that it is terribly impolite to ask question without waiting for an answer. It is also terribly impolite to kiss random people. It is _extremely_ impolite to mistake him for a fucking _whore_ … of all things.

And the guy isn’t even a good kisser. Damn, Eames is much better than him, Arthur thinks as tries to keep the twitch on his right eye invisible. But of course Eames is better than this douchebag; Eames is better than _anyone_.

When the guy starts grasping his arse through the material of his tailored pants, Arthur has to roll his eyes and think that this is too easy. Easy and maybe he should tell his boss to take extra charge from the client because of the sexual harassment he has to endure while doing the job.

\--

Eames takes a few swigs on his pint of beer and cringes. Nothing could ever beat European beer and Eames figures the Americans never really learnt how to make it properly, just like how they never learnt how to brew proper tea. How he misses the barrels of beer his father keeps in the underground cellar of their manor.

He sways a little bit when he steps down off his stool. Dodging a few people on his way to the back of the bar, he slides through the door marked ‘Employees Only’.

Inside the semi-darkened room, he finds several people sitting around a small table, a couple of long sofas, and a small television broadcasting a re-run of a football match. From the look of it, he can gather several things: one, they are playing poker; two, they are all bulky men; and three, they all look morons whose brain could stand side by side with a peanut and the peanut would have the sense of pride for simply being bigger.

They all turn toward him and Eames gives them a big grin. He shuffles to the room, making sure to bump into some stray chairs on his way and look far too drunk to even remember his own name. He’s a great actor. Really great, if he’s the one to judge.

“What the fuck,” one of the men says as he stands up.

“Hey, man, get outta here!” another one shouts. “This is no place for yer.”

Eames merely grins and slings his arm across one of the men. He checks the man’s face and, nope, not his target. He chuckles and lets the man have a whiff of alcohol from his breath.

“Oh, shit. Fuck! This guy’s drunk!” the man says as he shoves Eames to one of his friends.

“I kin see that for meself, Marty,” his friend says, bracing Eames upright and slapping his face roughly. “Hey, Mister! You hear me? Hey!”

Eames scrunches up his face. Nope. Not his target. Now where in the hell is his dear beloved target anyway? He has a damned dinner date to attend soon.

He points his forefinger to the man who was holding him and says. “Ryder.”

“You searchin’ for Ryder, man?” the man says and Eames giggles. He puts his chin on the man’s shoulder as his gaze travels across the room. Five people. Five burly people. He could take care of them all—snap their necks and drill some bullets into them. He giggles some more. That sounds like a plan.

Fuck. He’s supposed to be pretending to be drunk, not to get actually drunk.

He needs to find this Ryder guy—his target—soon. Arthur would surely kill him if he makes them late for their dinner invitation. Not to mention how he would not-really-kill-but-maim-him-real-bad if he catches the alcohol from his breath. Fuck it, where is this…

Ah-ha.

Eames’s gaze zeroes on one of the guy standing a bit apart from the rest of the others. His face is partially concealed in the shadows but Eames could easily discern his feature to know that he has landed gaze on someone-who-shall-be-dead-in-minutes.

Well, Mister Ryder, he thinks, nice to meet you.

\--

And it goes like this:

\--

Arthur falls backwards to the bed. The guy has pushed him after slowly pulling off his coat and suit jacket while sniffing over his features like a fucking dog. Arthur never really likes to act, but after years of acting like a normal husband with Eames, one with a normal job, he thinks he could just play along and let his target crawling over him.

His target starts to breathe in Arthur’s neck and kissing his jaw. Arthur clenches his fists on the bed sheet and tries so, so hard to not punch the bastard… yet.

His thoughts swirl back to Eames and suddenly he feels his heart tugging a little. Because dear God in heaven and devil in hell, this bastard just doesn’t fucking know what he’s doing and Arthur misses the times Eames does _things_ with his lips. It has been too long since he last felt Eames’ lips roaming on everywhere on his body, Arthur mourns mentally.

Arthur unclenches his right fist and slowly reaches down to his bent right leg. His target is lapping his neck sloppily and Arthur slowly pulls up his pants leg, slips free one of the mini revolvers he has brought from his ankle holster. When he feels a hand starts to cup his crotch, Arthur groans and quickly flips his target over, straddles him, grabs a pillow with his left hand and shoves it onto his face, and shoots.

He shoots one more time to where he’s sure his target’s forehead is.

Fortunately, the pillow has muffled the gunshot sound, or so Arthur thinks because the bodyguards still don’t storm in after the two gunshots. After making sure the two bullets planted on his target’s head have indeed killed him, Arthur quickly gets off the bed and takes his coat and suit jacket. He cringes as he wipes the saliva on his neck and lips with a handkerchief he keeps in his bag. Then he takes a glance at his watch and cringes some more. He needs to get out fast if he doesn’t want to be late for dinner at Mal’s.

With that thought, he begins weighing his choices; front door or the balcony?

Going out from the front door might be a bit problematic—it would mean seeing those bodyguards again and they could stop him or at the very least remember his face.

Balcony it is, then. Good thing that the room is only on the fifth floor, Arthur thinks as he starts to pull up the window and jump up onto the ledge. Going down via the pipe of rain gutter is perhaps not the most dignified thing to do. It definitely will ruin his clothes, not that it’s not already ruined—Arthur has put up burning the clothes his main priority after he gets home, he feels so dirty after his target touched him all over. Ruined clothes aside, it is efficient enough. Once his feet touches the ground, he dusts off his suit and congratulates himself for a job well done as he walks searching for a taxi to go back to his office building, get his car and drive back home.

Arthur allows himself a small smirk as he imagines how chaotic it would be the moment they find Mr. Slobbery-Kiss dead on his bed.

\--

Eames gives the five burly men a huge drunken grin. He just needs to get close enough to his target (who is looking like he’s going to doze off any minute now what with the way he keeps on nodding and jerking his head, yawning) without rousing any unneeded attention, and finish his job quickly. With the extra four persons in this room though, it’s very likely he’ll have to have Yusuf adds extra four names for this week’s hit report.

“Indeed I am looking for Ryder,” he says. He stumbles away from the man holding him and staggers towards Ryder. “Ryder?”

Ryder jerks up and scowls at Eames. “What’s your business?”

Eames squints, still acting like he’s drunk, and gives Ryder a look over. For someone who’s supposed to be the number one leader of an underground movement of some sorts—the client has been secretive as to why he wants Ryder dead, and The Company is never one to question their clients, Ryder looks like some punk kid who just wanted to prove himself better than everyone.

Eames is never one to back off from a hit because his target is just an attention whore though. A job is still a job. And the more time Ryder spends alive, the higher the chances Eames will be going home late and then strangled to death by his own curtain, courtesy of his dearest Arthur.

He approaches Ryder. “Ah! There you are!” he laughs again as he positions himself by Ryder’s side, against the wall and putting an arm around his target’s shoulder, and patting Ryder’s cheek with the other. He glances at Ryder’s friends, they’ve gone back to their poker game.

“You see, mate, I was just wondering…” He traces Ryder’s jawline, his other hand creeping up to the back of his neck. And then with a twist of both hands, Ryder slumps down—dead, the crack of his neck was muffled by the sound of the TV—and Eames catches his limp body, while dramatically exclaiming, “Oh my! The gentleman has fallen asleep!”

Ryder’s four other friends seem to be buying that and just continue with their poker game after they see Eames carefully puts Ryder on one of the sofas near the TV. Eames pats Ryder’s cheek, grinning, and quickly walks towards the exit. “Well, since our dear mate here is asleep now, I think I’ll just call it a night and talk to him some other day,” he says as he pats one of them on the shoulder. “G’night, lads!”

He counts from one (he hears the sound of chair scrapping on the wooden floor), crosses both his hands and slips them inside his coat (one of Ryder friend’s tries to wake him), clicking his beloved Campers’ safety off (“Ryder! Ryder, wake up, man!” “Shit! He’s not breathing!”), and stops counting when he reaches the exit. He pushes the door closed, locks it, and turns back to the room again.

Ryder’s four friends are looking at Eames, realising what he has done, and he gives them a smirk and a wink before pulling out his two suppressed pistols.

“What the-“

Before Marty can finish his sentence, Eames fires eight shots. It’s over in five seconds flat and four bodies are now lying sprawled on the dusty wooden floor, two bullets planted in each of their heads.

Eames puts his pistols back to their holsters with their safety on. He dusts off his coat’s sleeves and as he stares down at the bodies again, frowning, and then fishes out his phone, sending a quick text to Yusuf about the four extra bodies. After he sends the text, he looks at the numbers on the screen and curses. He only has less than twenty minutes until eight and the journey back home from this part of New York will at least take him fifteen minutes.

Well, Eames thinks, that just means he should use a shortcut and breaks some speed. It’s better than having Arthur breaking his neck, he supposes.

Before closing the door, Eames looks inside again and gives the five dead bodies a salute. “Night, lads!”

\--

And it ends like this:

\--

Arthur hears the sound of the bedroom door opening while he is in the shower. He didn’t see Eames when he got back so he must have just came back from wherever he had gone too, Arthur thinks as he soaps up his body, trying to clean up as best as he could. He could still smell the gun powder; feel it thick on his fingers even though he knows it is ridiculous. He’s used to the smell of course, along with the smell of blood, of burnt flesh, and perhaps even the smell of death in. But tonight Arthur feels he just need to wash that off; the scent, the feeling… the imprint of hands and lips and breath. He still grimaces at the thought of what his latest target had done to his body. It feels so disgusting—the taste of that man in his mouth and his skin.

“Arthur?” he hears Eames’ voice calling him.

“In the shower!” he calls back. And a moment after that he sees Eames coming to the bathroom to join him.

They never lock bathroom door ever since they got married. Arthur doesn’t see the point, neither does Eames. You married a guy, surely you will see him naked. And in the past, it was common occurrence for Eames to slip up behind him when he got his morning shower, kissing his neck and helping him clean up before he proceeded to make Arthur dirty again by fucking him against the tiled wall.

But, of course, that was in the past.

The present Eames, the one who has just entered the bathroom this time, doesn’t move to join him in the shower stall. He merely stands outside the glass partition wall. His silhouette is dimly visible to Arthur through the fogged glass.

Somehow, that simple fact makes Arthur gloomy.

He turns off the shower and reaches for his towel, wrapping it around his waist. He is not really comfortable with the idea of coming out naked under Eames’ gaze. And isn’t that pathetic? But Arthur can’t help shutting himself out and being defensive. He knows the tension between him and Eames has been thickened by Arthur’s own stubbornness to not make it easier for the both of them. He just doesn’t want to be the one admitting defeat… but Arthur doesn’t even know what he- _they_ are both fighting over.

Eames is staring at Arthur intently when he exits the shower stall. He is standing propped against the bathroom wall, his arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression fixed on his face.

“I didn’t see you downstairs,” Arthur says, as he passes Eames to the washing basin area, towelling his hair using one of the clean towels stacked on the marble surface. “You were out somewhere?”

“Downtown. Getting some drinks at the pub to prepare myself for whatever it is Mal’s going to shove down my throat this time,” Eames says nonchalantly, his eyes are locked with Arthur in the mirror. “We only have ten minutes if we want to get to the dinner on time by the way.”

Arthur keeps himself from gritting his teeth and wipes his face using the towel to hide his sour expression. He knows Eames never likes how Mal keeps on pestering and hovering on their marriage, Arthur doesn’t really like it too. But it is one thing to dislike it, it is another thing to be outright displeased about it when Eames knows exactly how much Arthur cares for Mal and her family.

“I know,” Arthur says, stepping out of the bathroom and goes to the walk in closet. He takes a good care to step on the heaps of clothes he wore during his job earlier (he had immediately shed them off and practically ran to the bathroom), but it still doesn’t quell the feeling of disgust. He really needs to burn them—thirteen hundred dollars Burberry suit be damned.

He can feel Eames hovering behind him as he searches through his clothes, looking for something light to wear. Yet Arthur is still surprised when he feels a pair of hands landing on his bare shoulders.

“What the… you startled me,” he says sharply, turning his face to meet Eames’ concerned gaze. He eyes the large hand on his shoulder and thinks he smells a faint scent of gunpowder. But he takes it just as a fragment of his imagination, or maybe it’s just the smell of gunpowder on his body that he knows has permanently stuck, what with the rate of him firing his guns every week.

“Are you okay?” Eames asks, his voice sounds painfully sincere. He begins to gently massaging Arthur’s shoulders. “You’re so tense and jumpy… more than usual kind of tense and jumpy, I must add. Did you get your files? Something happened at your office? Your job?”

At the mention of his job, Arthur could feel his body tensing up. He is reminded again of his now dead target, of his hands roaming over his body, of his disgusting lips slobbering on his neck. But then Eames’ hands rub his shoulders soothingly and working their way up and down, Arthur let himself relax.

It is not his habit to get so worked up over a case, a successful one no less. Perhaps he’s just too tired lately, more tired than he initially imagined.

“I’m okay,” Arthur says. “It’s just… it’s not the most enjoyable work. I guess I’m just tired.”

“As long as you’re all right,” Eames says before Arthur feels a soft kiss lands on his shoulder and another one on his cheek close to his lips. “Get dressed. I’ll start the car.”

Arthur nods and Eames gives one last squeeze before he releases Arthur’s shoulders. A few minutes later, Arthur hears the sound of their car (one of their cars, and by the sound of the engine, it is Arthur’s) starting up. He is standing there, in front of his open closet with half buttoned shirt and pants, and in the process of tugging a worn out but comfortable sweater his mother-in-law had sent him for Christmas two years ago over his head, the only thing Arthur can think of is the simple peck Eames gave him the moment before he dashed off.

It was soft, and chaste, and gentle. And Arthur wonders why did Eames not proceed further? Why stop at mere peck like that? Why did he not grab Eames’ hand and slam him to the wall, kissing him and perhaps even taking him to bed so they could come late to Mal’s diner invitation looking thoroughly fucked with matching sated grins on their faces? They used to do that. Millennia ago, Arthur adds bitterly.

Why have things changed so much between them?

\--

Eames listens to the engine whirring as he waits for Arthur to come out. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and hums a random song that’s just coming into his mind. The night is cold and the car’s heater isn’t doing much to give him the necessary heat. He rummages through the glove compartment to find the leather gloves he keeps there. As he slips the gloves on, he feels the grittinotices the faint traces of gunpowder on the back of his palms and some on his coat’s sleeves. Clicking his tongue, he rubs the gunpowder off with some tissues and hopes it doesn’t leave any residual smell.

Then he remembers how he’d massaged Arthur’s shoulder and how close his face was to his hands. He really hopes Arthur didn’t notice. It wouldn’t do to have Arthur sniffing around him and asking why there’s gunpowder smell on his hands. But… well, it’s not like Arthur could even recognise how gunpowder smells like, right?

He leans back in the seat and continued waiting. The job today went smoothly and even though there are additional bodies to be cleared up, it’s nothing Yusuf can’t handle. What bugs him is how stiff and tense Arthur was. Even though Arthur’s always been jumpy and tense around him the past months, today he’s been even more distant and unresponsive.

Eames can still feel the phantom coldness of Arthur’s skin under his hands, and how stiff the muscle had been. And of course how startled Arthur was when he kissed his shoulder and the corner of his lips lightly. Eames… doesn’t really know why he’d given in to his urge to kiss Arthur, and yet managed to be an arse and not go all the way. On one hand, he’s not supposed to do anything drastic during this ‘cold phase’ of their relationship. On another hand, he just remembered how Miles had advised him to be more honest with Arthur. Well, if he couldn’t be honest about his real job to Arthur, he could be more honest with his feelings, right?

Except… Arthur doesn’t seem to approve of his small display of affection in their closet. If the scowl that he sports as he strolls out of the kitchen door and towards the garage is any indication.

Eames has to hold his breath of a few seconds as he watches Arthur. Arthur’s wearing the jumper Eames’ mother sent him a couple of Christmases ago, under a beige coat and his hair is not slicked back to its usual perfection. It’s still damp from the shower and Eames has this strong urge to card his fingers into the curls and maybe drag him back into the house, up to their room and have a good shag.

He tries to drive that particular thought away as Arthur probably will not take it well. They have a dinner with the Cobbs after all. He still doesn’t know when exactly the sex stopped—and well, it’s not like he didn’t have a hand to play in the lack of sex (killing people can be a very tiresome work), but he’s sure it will still remain non-existent as long as they haven’t dealt with their problem. Whatever the problem is.

“You look great,” he says instead. Eames bites his lower lip and looks away as soon as the words come out.

Arthur stops tugging on his coat that’s stuck on the door and looks at him weirdly. He blinks a couple of times and he looks like he wants to say something but then he closes his mouth with a click. “Thanks,” he murmurs, turning his attention back into tugging at his coat. “Goddamnit,” he curses at the door.

The scowl and the little pout of his lips make him looks like a petulant child. A petulant adorable child. And Eames thinks it’s better if he stops thinking altogether because the thought of his own husband as a child is just so disturbing. Particularly because right after he thinks Arthur looks like a petulant adorable child, he thinks about how much he wants to grab Arthur’s coat and kiss him senseless and maybe repeat the experience of having car sex that they’ve had a couple of times… back when they were still a happy, insatiable couple.

A cough. Eames leans closer to Arthur, opens the door and takes the troublesome coat in. “There you go,” he says, patting Arthur’s thigh. And then he quickly removes his hand and places it back on the steering wheel.

He clears his throat, “Ready?” he asks.

“Sure.” Arthur’s eyes are fixed on the road in front of them, looking at everything but him.  


* * *

  


Arthur tightens his coat as they walk along the path to the Cobbs’ home. It’s cold outside and even with the layers of clothing he wears, Arthur still feels his skin tingle. He’s sure his skin tingles from the cold and not from the heat emanating from Eames’ body when he leant closer to him and helped him with the stupid stuck tailcoat of his. He scowls and stamps down on that particular idea.

There’s exactly a foot of distance between him and Eames and even as they walk side by side, it seems as though the silence that hangs between them since they left keeps on pushing them apart. It’s only when they both stand in front of the door, and Arthur has knocked, that he and Eames look at each other and—as if there is still some sort of understanding left amongst the remains of their crumbling relationship—Arthur takes one step closer to Eames, just as the door is opened. He doesn’t flinch when Eames’ hand finds its way to his lower back. Instead, he smiles widely at Mal.

“Sorry we’re a bit late, Mal,” he says as his greeting, smiling politely at her as if there is nothing wrong. His job as an assassin surely helped polishing his acting skills.

“We’re late because Arthur took such a long time dolling himself up,” Eames says, his other hand patting Arthur’s rosy cheek (it is cold). Arthur’s eyebrow twitches and Mal chuckles. “By the way, you look lovely as usual,” he adds again, taking time to give Mal a peck on her cheek.

“Why, thank you so very much for the compliment, Eames.” Mal takes their coats and ushers them in. “Come on in, you lovebirds,” she says sweetly and Arthur nearly flinches at that word being used to describe the two of them. He can’t really see Eames’ face but the faint tensing of his arm let Arthur know that Eames feels the same .

The way they act around each other when no one can see them is far from the term lovebirds. Maybe it _was_ , back in the first three years of their marriage. Even though they haven’t really had any big fights over the course of five years, the tense atmosphere around them right now is enough to be classified as ‘cold war’. That, in itself is worse than any heated argument. Arthur prefers having a heated argument instead of thick, boring silence, but he has too many secrets he needs to keep and he can’t trust himself to not spill all of them in the heat of the moment.

They never really verbally agreed on putting up a show in front of everyone and telling them there’s nothing wrong in their marriage (even though the rate of Arthur coming to Mal to rant about Eames is quite high these days). It’s just more convenient that way. And at least that means he and Eames can still share the same feeling toward ‘certain things’. But when he thinks that said ‘certain things’ is the fact that they feel the need to put up an act of being happy together but then get uncomfortable being referred to as ‘lovebirds’—when they are anything but—that does not sound really good.

When they both enter the dining room, he sees Dom holding baby James as he tries to get Phillipa to stay in her seat and not fidget. Phillipa jumps off her seat as soon as she sees Arthur and Eames and runs towards them. Arthur extricates himself from Eames to greet her. He has even already opened his arms for the little girl’s hug. What Arthur doesn’t expect is for Phillipa to practically scream in delight and launches herself to Eames instead, with an, “Uncle E!”

He watches Eames laughing as he bends his knees to scoop Phillipa into his arms. Eames has always been good with children and children always love him, Arthur knows that very well. He would make a great father, Arthur muses before he realises what he’s thinking and his expression subsequently turns grim. He turns his gaze from the sight of Phillipa recounting her day to the smiling Eames and comes face to face with Dom, baby James in his arms. He feels his lips twitch automatically to form a smile. It is a natural response.

“Hey,” Dom greets him. “Want to hold this one?”

Arthur feels the smile freezes on his face. He blinks and then stares at the little baby in Dom’s hands, then turns his gaze back to Dom’s face, trying to determine if his friend was joking. He starts to get really nervous when he realises Dom wasn’t joking.

“Oh, no. No,” he says and releases a nervous chuckle. “I’m not good with babies.”

“Oh, please, hold him for a sec while I go help Mal get the food,” Dom insists, holding James out for Arthur. “He won’t bite you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Arthur can’t do anything but accept the eight month old baby into his arms. He looks down and finds James is looking at him as if he’s the most interesting thing in the world. Arthur has only ever seen James this close once, immediately after he was born and Mal insisted that he hold his new godson. He never realised that James has the same bright blue eyes and corn silk hair as his father.

They are looking at each other intently. And then suddenly, James starts to giggle. And, well, he might be not that keen with children but when a sweet little baby is laughing in his arms, he can’t help but to smile back.

It is just his luck that at that precise moment, Mal is walking in on them and sees the scene perfectly.

“Well, why don’t you look at that,” she says, smiling in that self-satisfied way of hers. “Aren’t you two lovely.”

Her words draw Eames’ gaze and Arthur then finds himself under it too. He know how it looks like to Mal, the picturesque view of him and Eames holding children in their arms, the very picture of a normal, happy and domestic couple. Something Arthur knows they will never be as long as he still keeps everything to himself, and their life together is still as boring and fake as ever. He tenses a bit and baby James, as if sensing his discomfort, begins fussing in his arms.

Not wanting the baby to cry, Arthur gently rocks James and tries to soothe him. He smiles at him, he even chuckles when baby James blinks his eyes at him. And when he feels Eames’ breath on the side of his neck, it is only his years of training that prevents him from jumping in fright.

“Awww, he likes you, Arthur,” Eames coos. He himself has Phillipa hanging on his neck. The little girl seems to not want to let her ‘Uncle E’ go (how Phillipa came to that nickname, Arthur never knows), and is patting Eames’ cheeks to get his attention back.

“And Phillipa seems quite taken with you,” Arthur counters.

“No one can resists my charm, darling.” Eames even winks at him.

Arthur is surprised at the playful snort he gives Eames afterward. It feels almost normal, them bantering playfully like that. Of course, normal, if they were to ignore the baby and the little girl in their arms.

“You both are quite good with kids, you know,” Mal says, still smiling meaningfully. “More than you like to admit, I must say.”

“Yeah,” Dom nods. “Never thought of having one of your own?”

Arthur can see Eames’ expression changes. He can feel the sudden coldness in his heart. Having children, he thinks, Eames and him? How could they think of having children when he can’t even be honest with Eames? How could he think of raising children when he knows he could die on some fucked up job one day?

“No,” he says simply. “No, it’s not… our thing.”

“Besides, the last time I heard, men still can’t conceive children on their own, Dom,” Eames says.

Arthur knows it’s just Eames’ way to lighten the suddenly tense air, but he still wants to bang his head, or more preferably Eames’ head on the dining table.

“Haven’t you heard of surrogacy? Adoption, perhaps?” Mal suggests. “You both could really do with a child’s laughter in your life.”

“No, really, Mal, it’s…” Arthur pauses and lets out a tired sigh. “It’s too dangerous.”

Personally, Arthur knows there is nothing really dangerous with the idea of two well-mannered, well-adjusted gentlemen who have been in their relationship for five years, have a nice income and want to have a child of their own by surrogacy or adoption. It’s quite a normal occurrence actually. But when he adds the fact that one of said gentlemen—himself—was a paid assassin, then the scale just tips and the danger point shoots up.

He doesn’t really expect Eames to agree with him though. When they first agreed on tying themselves to each other in civil partnership, and Eames’ father had blown up with the fact that Arthur is, well, a man and will never be able to give the Eames’ family an heir, Eames had said that he didn’t give a damn about that and the argument between both father and son had been epic. But Arthur knows how much Eames loves children and how they always get so easily taken with him. Take Phillipa as an example. Eames dotes on the little girl like she’s his own and Phillipa loves Eames even more than her own ‘Uncle Arthur’. Oh, and not to forget how his _dearest_ mother-in-law always asks when they will give her a grandchild to be doted on (she doesn’t mind whatever way they will use to get said grandchild).

Perhaps if their relationship isn’t as shaky as it is, Eames would have jumped at the first suggestion of having a child in their house.

“Yes, we’re both too busy with work to raise a child,” Eames says, patting Phillipa’s head. “Besides, we can’t even look after some gloxinias, let alone a child.”

Arthur shoots Eames an icy glare. It’s just so Eames to bring up Arthur’s flowers and rile him up during a serious talk.

“Classic reason. You men are just too lazy,” Mal says, frowning at Eames. “Well, come on, then. Dinner is ready.”

Arthur gives James back to Cobb and takes his seat beside Eames. He tries to push the talk about children out of his mind. He really isn’t in the position to even think about siring or adopting a child and raise them.

It is selfish reasoning, Arthur knows that clearly, and it’s as unfair for Eames as it is for the child they will never have.

\--

Eames noticed how uncomfortable Arthur was during their brief talk about children in the Cobbs’ house. And to be honest, Eames feels a little bit uncomfortable too. Even after they get home and are getting ready to turn in for the night, he notices how Arthur is even more touchy than usual and he seems lost in thought.

They never breached the subject of children after the great-argument-that-shalt-not-be-spoken-of-again between he and his father five years ago. It is a sensitive subject at best and Eames has tried very hard to not have Arthur and his stubborn father in the same room ever since. He just wishes his mother could stop pestering both of them to consider adoption or surrogacy.

Eames loves children, he really does. But he’s not really in the position to think about having one. He wonders if his opinion would have been different he has another occupation. If he didn’t work as an assassin, would he and Arthur find themselves settling to some classic Stepford household pattern, with two point five children and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence?

That kind of life is simply unimaginable to him. And yet, here Arthur and him are living that very life. They have the whole nice house in the suburbs thing, complete with white picket fence. And a small flower garden to boot.

Eames wonders, though, as he lies in bed with Arthur, if that’s what Arthur hoped for when he agreed to marry him. Even before meeting his parents and before the great-argument-that-shalt-not-be-spoken-of-again happened, they never really talked about children—since they were too busy trying to know each other’s bodies in the biblical sense during the short time span between their initial meeting and their wedding. He wonders if Arthur would have jumped at the first mention of having a child of their own, if he ever mentioned it.

But Arthur’s words when Mal suggested having a child of their own is a clear enough answer for Eames. Arthur is too practical to have a kid turning his life upside down. Eames feels somewhat… remorseful. And thinking about that makes him feel annoyed because, well, why should he feel remorseful?

This whole marriage life thing is so confusing, even more confusing than being an assassin. Being an assassin, he simply has to kill the target assigned to him by the company. Simple and clean, one shot and the deed is done. While with Arthur and their marriage, he more often than not is left to figure out things by himself.

The sound of his mobile phone ringing distracts Eames from his thoughts. He recognises the ringtone. The only contact that has Queen’s ‘We Are The Champion’ is his boss.

He quickly flips the phone open lest it wakes Arthur up. But his deed is futile for not a second after that, Arthur’s own phone starts ringing. He puts the phone on his ear and turns on his side, his back to Arthur.

“Eames speaking,” he says, and at the same time Arthur is picking up his phone on the bedside table and answering it with a ‘Arthur Eames speaking’. It makes Eames want to smile. Just a little bit. He snaps his attention back to the phone when he hears the deep throaty grunt of his boss. He listens for a while and can feel the smile forming on his lips.

“I understand,” he says. “Will get in touch with you later for the details. Yes.”

When he hangs up, a smile on his face, he hears Arthur mumbling ‘Yes, Dad. I know, I understand,’ before hanging up.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, as they both settle back into the bed.

“Mom’s not well and Dad is freaking out,” Arthur says. “He thinks she got pneumonia. Probably just a cough though.”

How convenient, Eames thinks. Not that he’s happy his mother-in-law is ill of course.

“Then maybe you should take a day or two off,” he suggests. “See if your mum’s okay. Your parents would love it if you stay the night too, I think.”

“That’s…” Arthur pauses, “that’s so sweet of you.”

The ‘even after I told you to burn that goddamn curtain and keep the one my mother gave me?’ is left unspoken.

“I’m just thinking of your mum’s well being, darling.”

There’s a faint huff. Eames ignores it and chooses to bury his face into the pillow.

“What was yours?” Arthur asks after a few moments.

“A call from a client,” he says, “He said he got several of Andy Warhol original paintings that he’d like to sell.”

“Oh, that’s good… I think.”

“Yep. Coincidentally, Madame Paxton is looking for some Andy Warhol.” Eames wants to pat himself on the back for the flawless lies he could sprout in just a few minutes. “So yeah, well… I’ll be going out of town for a few days to get them.”

“Ah… that Madame Paxton who tried to grab my ass in that gala dinner a few months ago?”

“The very same.” Eames chuckles at the memory. And then he stops, because suddenly he just has to remember how odd it is to have a light hearted conversation in bed with Arthur. He cringes a bit at his own subconscious for popping out all of a sudden. And well, no one would blame him for feeling a little bit unsettled over having a somewhat normal talk with his own husband. It’s been so long since they have had any kind of civilised ‘pillow talk’, after all.

The sudden silence is unbidden and Eames thinks Arthur must have fallen asleep so he tugs the blanket closer to cover his body. A couple of seconds and suddenly he feels the cold night air again. Arthur’s pulled the blanket closer to himself.

Eames scowls at the ceiling. He pulls the blanket to cover himself again.

A beat.

Arthur pulls back. Again.  



	4. From This Day Forward

On Sunday evening, Arthur tells Eames he’s going to visit his parents on Monday. And Eames, in turn, tells him he’ll be going to meet the client who has the Andy Warhol paintings too. They spend the rest of the evening packing. Arthur takes care to lock his study when he packs some of his guns and gadgets for the upcoming job. His boss had said that it is a very important one and he expects Arthur to do it cleanly, and quickly. The job is scheduled to commence on Tuesday and Arthur has already started to gather as much information he can with Ariadne’s help. But he can’t do anything much until he gets into his office tomorrow and start the full research.

Eames, Arthur notes, spends a lot of time on the phone and seems to be holing himself up in his study for the remainder of the night. Arthur doesn’t think much about it when he catches Yusuf’s name as Eames passes by him, talking quickly into the phone. As far as he knows, Yusuf is Eames’ closest friend, and also his partner in managing the art gallery. The guy seems to not like Arthur so much, though.

Arthur wakes up early in the morning to find Eames already hustling and bustling around the kitchen, preparing a quick breakfast of eggs and bacon, his duffle bag already waiting by the kitchen door. Arthur discreetly brings his two suitcases—one is filled with a sniper rifle and a couple of guns, the other with clothes—into the kitchen and says he’s going to bring some work to do while he’s in his parents’ house when Eames asks why the luggage.

They eat breakfast in peaceful calmness, with only the sound of the small TV showing the morning news in the background.

Arthur takes off first, after giving Eames a quick, dry, and dispassionate peck on the cheek. It’s just for a show, Arthur tells himself, as he drives his car out of their garage with Eames waving in the background, telling him not to forget to send his regards to his parents and bring some souvenirs. Arthur huffs and shakes his head. Really, he doubt he could get Eames any decent souvenir, though, considering where he’s heading—not to his so called ‘parents’ house’ that’s for sure.

Then again, perhaps he could take some detour when he comes back home and get his husband a keychain or something.

\--

After watching Arthur driving off, Eames then takes care of his own ‘business meeting’. Forget Andy Warhol, assassination is an art on a whole new different level.

Truly, the call some nights ago from his boss could not have a better timing. He’s itching for a mission, a nice and challenging mission. The one he has just had some nights ago didn’t count. It’s not really challenging to kill some drunken guy who could not even give him a good fight. Well, he had some satisfaction shooting those guys but that’s beside the point.

The new mission seems promising. And, damn, he’s getting giddy just thinking about it. He tells himself that the giddiness he’s feeling is coming from the anticipation of the new job, and not—definitely not—from how Arthur had planted a dry peck on his cheek before leaving. Because it would be so pathetic.

His giddiness turns down a notch as he thinks about it.

He scowls at nothing in particular and then shoves his hands into his pockets, turning back into the kitchen. He takes a sip of the lukewarm tea and goes to the oven, switches it to ‘CLEAN’ and waits a full ten seconds until the oven beeps. He taps a series of numbers on the touchpad before pulling the door open.

With a small hiss, the base of the oven slowly rises revealing the [sleek silver alloy armoury box](http://www.imfdb.org/index.php/Image:Oven05-1-.jpg) that a good friend of his had made and installed for him when he and Arthur first moved into this house. He watches and thinks about which weapons he’s going to bring with him as the drawers slides open one by one. The three lower drawers are keeping his small daggers set and two kinds of mini revolver sets. The middle drawer is where he keeps the larger dagger sets. He takes a pair. The upper two drawers are holding some of his most prized firearms. Two pairs of [nickel H&K pistols](http://www.imfdb.org/index.php/Image:H%26KP7M13_SS.jpg), and a set of magazines and some .38 calibre bullets.

After getting all the weapons he needs, Eames then proceeds to go to his car and drives to the headquarters of the agency, whistling as he wonders if Yusuf has already gotten all the information they need for the job.

\--

“Robert Fischer,” Arthur says aloud as he studies the profile of his newest target that Ariadne has just given him. “He doesn’t seem dangerous.” In fact, Robert Fischer looks like he couldn’t even kill an ant.

“Looks could be deceiving,” Ariadne says and Arthur smiles.

“Indeed,” he says. He turns his face to look at Ariadne. “Tell me about this guy.”

“You have everything that you need to know in there,” Ariadne gestures to the files in Arthur’s hands. “He’s with the FBI now so the mission is pretty… delicate. Our source has informed us about the route of the convoy that he will take. We’re planning to intercept him when he’s passing one of the more deserted streets.”

Arthur frowns, still studying the material in his hands. “An open convoy?” he asks, rising an eyebrow over the information. “Is the FBI losing their brains?”

Ariadne shrugs. “They seem to think it’s safe enough. And it is said that there’ll be a switch after they leave the deserted buildings area. We only have one chance.”

“So, long distance shooting for Mr. Fischer, I take?”

“Preferably,” Ariadne agrees with him. “Our client did ask us to maintain the least possible amount of exposure with our target.”

“I see,” Arthur says. In his mind, he’s already considering which one of his many weapons that might be best to do the job. He loves doing long distance shooting. It’s less messy than fistfight, that’s for sure. And Arthur loves being tidy.

“We will leave tomorrow morning,” Ariadne says. “So please prepare yourself. And good luck.”

Arthur closed the file shut and places in on his lap. Smiling to Ariadne, he says, “This mission will be fun, I just know it.”

\--

Meanwhile, Eames is having similar conversation with Yusuf, regarding a similar mission and, surprisingly, a similar target.

“Robert Fischer,” Eames says, studying the profile on Yusuf’s computer screen. “That’s one funny name. He seems fishy too.”

Yusuf stares at him weirdly. “Could you please try to focus on the mission at hand and save your criticizing of the poor guy’s name for later?”

“Don’t be so stiff. And the guy is not poor, see,” Eames points at the information displayed on screen, “according to this, he’s pretty rich. Who is he anyway?”

“Yeah, but any amount of richness isn’t going to help him escape his death at your hands,” Yusuf says.

Eames pretends to preen at the indirect praise. “Why, Yusuf, you sure know how to flatter a guy.”

“Shut it,” Yusuf simply says. “I’ll print this information on the guy and I’ll give it to you. The mission is scheduled for tomorrow, ten a.m. when the guy will be crossing the street with his party, which includes those pesky guys from FBI, I’m afraid.”

“It only adds to the flavour,” Eames says. He leans back to his chair and grins. “This mission will be fun, I just know it.”

He doesn’t know that at nearly the same time, across the city, Arthur is saying the very same thing. If he knows then perhaps he would get some suspicion, or at least intuition, of how ‘interesting’ his mission will turn out to be.

\--

Arthur might not be a real architect but he could still appreciate nice architecture when he sees one. And as he’s standing against the window on the top floor of an old building abandoned, waiting for his target to show up, he spares a bit of his precious time to appreciate the view.

There’s just something in the scenery—some old dilapidated buildings reaching up to the sky—that touches his heart. He wonders if Eames might appreciate the view too if he was there with him, after all, his husband is an art curator. Then he firmly tells his brain to shut up, because… really, he can’t start thinking about his husband when he’s in mission. It’s a sure death trap.

Arthur snaps his attention back to the street under him. His source has notified him that it’s very likely that the convoy that holds his target would pass through that street in—he checks his watch—approximately ten minutes from now. He taps the throat mike strapped around his neck. “In position. Give me a situation report. Perimeter check,” he says into the mike. He waits as there’s a rustle of static in his earphone.

“Perimeter is clear. Target is approaching in four twenty two seconds,” Ariadne says.

And Arthur waits.

\--

Eames kicks the door open and walks to the edge of the building, head hopping into the beat of the music blaring from his iPod. He pushes up his black shades and adjusts his cap. He looks around and up the area, assessing the situation. The sky is perfectly clear and it’s not so windy. He has clear vision of the road and there will be no problem spotting good ol’ Mr. Fischer.

He kicks the briefcase he’s brought; it skids right to the edge of the roof. He takes off the iPod earphone and switches it with a wireless earphone that’s connected to his phone. Yusuf picks up after the first ring.

“How much longer?” Eames asks, taking his time to unwrap a bubblegum candy he brought just to have something to do with his mouth. He pops the square pink square into his mouth.

“Five minutes,” Yusuf answers shortly. “And please stop munching on that bubblegum, Eames. You’re working.” And then he hangs up.

Eames pouts at the phone and he shrugs. He blows a bubble and pops it before spitting it out. He replaces the bubblegum with a toothpick. He’s not nervous, really. It’s just that he can’t not do anything with his mouth. He has stopped smoking four years ago, and Yusuf has never approved of eating while working—or in the case just now, munching on bubblegum—so he only has the toothpick to occupy his oral fixation. It’s just to kill some of the boredom as he waits for the convoy to arrive.

\--

Arthur checks the [Heckler & Koch G3SG/1](http://www.imfdb.org/index.php/Image:H%26KSG1.jpg) sniper rifle he’ll be using for the job, making sure it works perfectly. He takes the digital binoculars—wired in to his laptop on the side, sending the surveillance record back to the office in New York via satellite—and looks around the vicinity, waiting for his target to appear. The waiting part was the element that he both loves and detests in the whole assassination business. He loves it, because it gives him the thrill—to be alert and on guards for the perfect time to strike. But he also detests it because… well, it gets boring.

Arthur’s travelling gaze suddenly catches sight of movement and he feels himself go rigid. He fiddles with a couple of buttons and the binoculars zoom in.

Focusing his gaze, he becomes aware that there’s someone walking on top of the building across the road. He takes notice of the man—he’s pretty sure that the stranger is a male, judging from his posture—and feels like cursing.

A civilian, he thinks. What the fuck is a civilian doing there? Why hasn’t his team cleaned up the area? Sure, the area is a public one but it’s his playground for the moment. No civilian should be there.

“Damn,” Arthur curses softly.

“What?” Ariadne asks. “Problem?”

“There’s a civilian in our perimeter,” Arthur says, moving the binoculars into the man’s general direction and zooms in. “Are you getting this?”

“Affirmative. Could just be a birdwatcher.”

Arthur’s not so sure about that. He keeps eying the man’s movement through the binoculars. The man is hunched over something black and square, Arthur can’t really make out what it is.

Then he sees the commotion from the far end of the road and realizes that his target’s party is close to crossing over the street. And the man is still there, now standing in the shadow.

Fischer’s convoy is advancing ever so steadily and Arthur finds himself having an internal debate. He’s an assassin, true, but he’s never one to take innocent bystanders.

\--

Eames fishes out a pair of binoculars from the briefcase and looks down to the road, where he sees a cloud of dust rising from the corner of the street.

“What is he? Royalty?” he mumbles to himself as he sees the convoy nearing—just a shy two hundreds metres away. It is time for the job to commence.

He takes out the [Blaser R93 LRS2](http://www.imfdb.org/index.php/Image:BlaserR93WithHarrisBipod.jpg) sniper rifle out of the briefcase. He quickly assembles the aimpoint and the bipod stand, places it right over the edge of the roof and starts scouting the area.

That’s when he notices him--a dark silhouette standing against the window near the emergency staircase on the top floor of the opposite building, watching over Fischer’s procession through a pair of binoculars. He clicks his tongue and uses the rifle’s aimpoint to take a clearer look of the man. There’s nothing much to see as the man is partially hidden behind the window, but Eames can make out the shirt and black tie. And the rifle perched on the window, pointed directly to where the convoy is coming any moment.

Thinking it must be one of the FBI’s scouts, Eames points his rifle to the direction of the window and prepares to eradicate the intruder. It wouldn’t do to have someone shooting you after you’re finished doing your job after all.

\--

As Arthur’s busy with his contemplation, he watches Fischer’s convoy getting into the perfect place for his execution. He curses and leaps to his spot behind the rifle. He can’t do it here. He can’t endanger the civilian. He must…

Then he sees the ‘civilian’ move. He sees him holding something that resembles a sniper rifle. He sees the ‘civilian’ point the weapon to his general direction and his eyes go wide.

“Fuck,” he curses, not caring if his voice might be carried by the wind. “Ariadne. Ariadne! Not a civilian!”

Just great. Whoever told him to get concerned with the civilian’s live anyway? He’s not even some fucking innocent and he’s now pointing his weapon at him and, God, can’t he be any stupider and Fischer’s party are advancing and _someone’s trying to kill him_.

He’s still holding his weapon in his hands. He could shoot Fischer now and risks being shot by the fucker. He could shoot the fucker and risks missing the time to shoot Fischer.

At times like that, self preservation wins and Arthur finds that his hand is already trained to aim for a shot toward the not-so-much-of-a-civilian. Without pausing even for a second, Arthur readies his rifle and shoots. Three times.

\--

Eames is starting to think just which God he has managed to annoy today when pain blooms in his chest. Three times to boot. It’s not the first time he ever got shot when he’s doing mission but, God, having three points of impact against his bulletproof vest certainly hurts like hell.

Fucking sharpshooter!

He groans and curses more when he realises that the sound of the shot has alerted Fischer’s party to something fishy going on as the convoy starts moving faster.

Fuck, his chest hurts! Thankfully he still has enough common sense to wear a bulletproof vest under his shirt. He doesn’t dare imagine what would have happened if he didn’t wear one.

The mission obviously is not going to have a pretty end, Eames thinks as he tries to catch the sight of that sharpshooter who has just shot him. His eyes widens in surprise as he found him aiming his weapon at Fischer’s party. Well, fuck. Apparently, the man’s not an FBI scout. He’s out to kill Fischer too it seems.

“Tough luck, Mister,” Eames says with a grin. The guy might be a good sharpshooter. He might have shot him and taken him down, but he’s never— _never_ —going to take his mark.

Eames takes one hand grenade from his fully supplied briefcase, pulls the pin and throws it to the building’s direction. He silently thanks his friends back in university days who kept on dragging him for some baseball practice. He hated the sport because it was just too American for him. Surprisingly, he has a talent in the pitching field.

The hand grenade flies directly into one of the windows of the top floor—just a couple of windows away from where the sharpshooter intruder is. The grenade explodes and all the windows of the top floor shatter. Eames watches how the guy ducks away—or blown away—from the explosion with glee, and in a moment of childish revenge, aims his rifle at where the annoying sharpshooter was standing before and shoots.

“Thank you for the shot,” he shouts to the air, and then he mutters, “Bloody arsehole.”

\--

Arthur can only grab his rifle after the explosion. He keeps cursing under his breath and winces when he realises his right arm is bleeding. Cursing his luck, the fucking not-really-a-civilian, and the universe, Arthur crawls in the direction of the emergency exit. It wasn’t really a big explosion, but it’s enough to make the old building shake dangerously. He’s not going to waste any more time and he has to get out fast.

When he reaches the emergency exit, he stands up and jerks it open with one hand—his right hand cradling the rifle into his chest. He runs a quick escape route through his head and remembers Ariadne has said there will be a helicopter waiting on top of the building behind the one he’s in at the moment. Arthur’s jaw is clenched tight as he looks at the emergency stairs.

He gives the door a vicious kick to close it. He swears to himself as he runs down the emergency staircase, he will find out who the intruder is and make sure the guy will pay for what he has done. No one ruins Arthur’s mission and then lives to tell the tale.  


* * *

  


“What do you mean there’s someone else?”

Eames downs the lukewarm coffee in one gulp and slams the cup down, almost shattering it to pieces. He doesn’t even like coffee and now he’s downing the cheap awful kind that Yusuf keeps in the back office of the gallery. That speaks quite clearly of how stressed he is. He spent the two hour journey back to New York bristling and replaying the botched up job over and over again in his mind.

“I told you someone else is after Fischer as well,” he says to Yusuf, peeling off his t-shirt and then the Kevlar vest. He throws them away not caring where they land. “Double commission. The boss didn’t tell me about this bloody double commission.”

He takes a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, making sure the content is indeed water and not one of Yusuf’s mysterious compounds. He needs to have Yusuf separates his compounds from all other drinkable substances in the fridge. If not, one day he could end up killing himself drinking a poison thinking it was water.

“A fucking sharpshooter too. Fuck!” he curses after he washes his throat from the awful taste of coffee with the water.

“You know who it is, then?” Yusuf asks.

“How can I bloody know?” Eames stomps towards the washroom at the back. “A shrimpy young looking man, that’s all I could make out.” He washes his face, fills one of the plastic cups on the porcelain basin and then leans over to pour the water onto his head.

“You’re saying you had your arse handed to you by a shrimpy kid?”

“I think so. But he’s a pro.”

“You’re a pro too. Uh and… Eames?” Yusuf suddenly calls out to him, his voice is muffled but Eames can still hear what he’s saying. “A message from Boss.”

Eames groans at that, or maybe it’s because he has just accidentally rubbed on the bruises on his chest and torso. “What is it?” He pokes on one of the bruises and winces. He hopes the bruises will fade soon and Arthur will take no notice of Eames wearing too much clothing in their bedroom when he usually never bothers to put on a shirt.

“It just says, ‘48 hours. Find and kill’,” Yusuf says when he comes out of the washroom, and gives him a look. “Well, did you get any other details on him other than he might be just a kid? I hope you know how to find that hitman, Eames. Boss never takes it well when a job fails.”

Eames raises an eyebrow to the statement. It is as if Yusuf underestimates his ability. “I’ve got a laptop,” he says, smirking.

“What?”

“Laptop.”

“I know you have a laptop, too many of them I must say, but…”

“Not mine! It’s the fucker’s.”

Yusuf looks at him over the top of his glasses, the look is accompanied by the unspoken question of ‘how?’. But Eames only gives him a smug smile. Yusuf doesn’t need to know that retrieving the laptop from under the debris almost killed Eames in the process. It’s almost unsalvageable but it’s the only thing Eames could get his hands on before the roof collapsed completely.

“And that helps you, how?”

“Time to give old boy Charlie a visit, eh?”

\--

Arthur is pissed off. No, that is not the correct term to describe his current mood. He is _furious_ beyond words. Never in his whole seven years career as the Organisation most deadly assassin has he ever failed in completing his mission. Not even during the earlier years. Yes, there are times when a job turns south and he ends up with a nasty gunshot, or broken bones, or gashing wounds. But he always finishes them. He never leaves any on-scene witnesses.

But this time his job has been jeopardised by another person, most definitely another assassin. The target is off the hook and now he has to find man who has caused all of this.

“I want to know who that person is and what he was doing on my patch,” Arthur seethes, “I want that fucking asshole dead. Find him!” Everyone in the office flinches and scrambles to start their search.

Arthur rips his covered-in-soot-and-blood shirt off and flings it away, leaving only his undershirt on. It was quite a scene when he jumped off the helicopter that had taken him from the site back to the roof of his office’s building, stomping his way down the emergency stairs to the thirtieth floor.

But Arthur doesn’t even care how everyone is staring at him at the moment. He knows how he looks like right now; his hair in disarray, nasty scrape on his left shoulder, a couple of inches long bloodied gash on his right forearm from where a splinter of glass from the explosion slashed it, and his face has a permanent scowl etched on it. He has lost his usual calm and collected demeanour. His head feels like it’s going to split in two and he can practically feel his blood boils to an alarming degree.

If he doesn’t find the intruder soon, he thinks he might start killing everyone in the vicinity. He paces back and forth from one table to another, barking out orders and demanding everyone to start to analyse all the records from his fucked up job. He may have lost all of his weapons and gadgets in the explosion but he still has the satellite recording.

He is just going to grab a seat and start analysing the last surveillance record, where he shot the intruder straight in the chest, when Ariadne drags him back again with two tiny hands on his shoulders. “No, Arthur, seriously! Stay still!”

Arthur winces as Ariadne dabs some disinfectant to his wound. Another girl whose name he doesn’t remember is stitching up the gash on his forearm. He doesn’t really care about his wounds at the moment but if left untreated they will leave even more prominent scars and Arthur will have to weave another bout of lies for Eames if he sees them, so he lets Ariadne do whatever she wants.

As Ariadne patches his wounds up, Arthur stares at the monitors replaying the surveillance records. The quality of the records is not as high as he wants it to be. It’s a little bit blurry and distorted at some sequences but he has to make do with what they have. Once they get a clear face, Arthur will be able to use all of his sources and information database to track the bastard down.

“Arthur…”

Arthur doesn’t respond, his eyes are still locked firmly on the screen, showing the faceless intruder.

“Arthur!”

“What?” he snaps, shooting icy glares to Ariadne. Ariadne doesn’t flinch but she looks unimpressed with his snapping. She is young, too young to be in the business—which is why Arthur has requested her to be his assistant before throwing her head first into the field—but she is a brave one.

“It’s Father,” she says, handing him a cell phone.

Arthur grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, readying himself for his boss’ wrath. He takes the phone from Ariadne and answers it. “The FBI secured the package, sir. There’s another player.”

“Then you know what you should do, Arthur. You know the rules.”

“Yes, I know.”

“We do not leave witnesses. Clean the scene, Arthur. Clean the scene.”

“I am already on it.” He glares at others who are staring at him.

“You have forty eight hours,” his boss says. “Remember, forty eight hours, Arthur. Don’t disappoint me.”

The ‘or you know what the consequence is’ is not spoken but implied quite heavily. Arthur never knows what fate awaits an assassin who fails to do their job, because he has never failed before. Whatever it is, Arthur doesn’t want to know.

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as he said that, the line is cut off and he snaps the phone shut, giving it back to Ariadne. He looks around, let out a sigh warily and snaps at everyone, “We have a new target. Let’s find out who he is.”

\--

Charlie is one of Eames’ oldest acquaintances in New York City. He’s a master hacker, tech geek, and the one Eames turns to whenever he has problems with the gadgets he uses for his job. Charlie is also the one who customised Eames’ kitchen and installed all the hidden compartments and cabinets. So Eames thinks Charlie will be the very best person who can help him with the laptop he found.

The bored look on Charlie’s face when Eames arrives in his little den at downtown New York with the laptop isn’t surprising however. They may have a sort of tight friendship after almost eight years of knowing each other, but Charlie never really likes it when Eames asks for his help because more often than not, it always involves the Company. If he can help it, Charlie will never want to have any business with a group of assassins.

“What now?” Charlie yawns, still typing quickly when Eames enters his working space. “Need help with your toys again?”

Eames sighs dramatically as he plops himself down on the rickety chair in front of Charlie’s desk. “Have you met Arthur?” he asks as he puts down the bag with the laptop on the desk.

“Your snobbish husband? Just that one time when I installed that oven in your kitchen. Why?”

“Because I think his sarcasm has rubbed off on you.”

“Tch! Makes me wonder how you could survive five years of marriage without him killing you then.”

Eames doesn’t dignify it with a response and just pulls out the wreck of a laptop. “Help me out with this?”

“What in God’s name have you done to this piece of crap?” Charlie asks, flabbergasted at the state of the laptop on his table.

Eames shrugs, “Bonfire?”

“Bloody hell, Eames.” Charlie picks the laptop and squints at its state. “Even _I_ can’t repair this shit.”

“No, no, I’m not asking you to repair it,” Eames says, waving to a girl passing over the door who he recognises as one of Charlie’s assistants. “Just give me anything you can get from this.”

“There’s _nothing_ I can get from this.” Charlie has already started to pick apart the laptop, separating the pieces of broken case from the motherboard. “It’s burnt to a crisp and it’s clean. No serials.” He plucks a piece of chip from the remnants of the laptop and uses a magnifying glass to check it. “Whoever built it really wanted it to be untraceable.”

Eames bites his lower lip and scowls. “Shit…”

Charlie raises an eyebrow to Eames and shakes his head. “I said they _wanted_ it to be untraceable. I didn’t say it was.” He shows the small chip to Eames and grins. “Extra RAM module. And it’s been upgraded.”

“Excuse me, but you know the reason why I come to you is because computer is never my strong subject. Translation?”

Charlie rolls his eyes, yet another quirk Eames recognises Arthur loves to use on him when he thinks Eames only pretends to be stupid. Charlie starts typing on his other computer after spending at least ten full seconds squinting at the chip. “Aha!” he exclaims suddenly.

Eames stands up from his seat and goes behind the desk to see what Charlie has gotten on his monitor.

“Chip’s Chinese, imported by Dynamix, New Jersey, retailed by Microworld, part number 090122,” Charlie reads. He taps another series of keys, and then some new lines of text appear. “Pulled up Microworld invoice from Talisman Anti-Theft network. It’s purchased on September ninth last year for eighty five dollars. Paid by AMEX blah blah blah. Now all you need is a billing address.”

Eames looks down to Charlie who doesn’t try too hard to hide his grin. “Well, can you get them then?”

“Couldn’t possibly. It’s illegal.”

“Fuck you!” Eames curses and shoves a hundred dollar bill into Charlie’s pocket.

“Business is business, mate.” Charlie starts tapping again and this time another tab appears. “Yep. Found it. Card’s registered to a company address. But no name. Here, see it yourself.” He sidles away to give Eames room so he can look closer.

Eames leans over and reads the lines of address on the monitor. It’s an upper town New York address and he has the feeling he has seen the address before. After noting down the address and giving Charlie another hundred dollar bill, Eames sets out to find the location.

After deiving around the New York city roads for half an hour, Eames finds the building where the address is located. He stands in front of it and gets a bad feeling about it. It’s the same building as Arthur’s architect firm. He knows Arthur’s office is located somewhere up in the thirty storey building and has visited a couple of times. But after a surprise visit gone wrong a couple of years ago (that resulted in Eames getting stuck in the elevator for three hours until the technician came to help him and Arthur had to postpone all his work that day to make sure his stupid spouse got out alive), Arthur forbid him from even enter the building.

Eames has no choice but to break the rule and steps into the building. He just has to be discreet and make sure he gets out before anyone from Arthur’s firm recognises him. He casually strolls in and goes straight to the information board where there’s a list of all the names of the companies and which floor their offices are located in the building. He pulls out the small note with the address from his pocket again and scans the board.

The address states it’s on the twenty-fifth floor of the building. His eyes turn to the bottom of the list and then back to the note again.

 _30th Floor 5503_

On the board, 30th Floor 5503 belongs to one architect firm. With the name Arthur E. as the owner.

Eames can feel the headache starting to bloom from the back of his head and faintly, a small tugging in his chest that he will never admit [to] as the feeling of his heart cracking slowly.

“Fuckfuckfuck!” he grunts as he fishes out his mobile phone quickly and enters a series of number. He just hopes this is all just a coincidence and Arthur has nothing to do with everything that has happened.

\--

Mal knows everything. She was one of the best information gatherers of The Organisation, until she decided looking for information on how to raise a baby was far worth her time than ruining someone’s life by providing information on what’s the best way to kill them. While Cobb was the one who taught Arthur how to _not_ break any rules he had created himself (Arthur always wonders how Dom could survive ten years in the business without cracking himself up in the head with all the crazy stunts he did before he married Mal), it was Mal who taught Arthur how to dig deeply into a person’s life and end it in the most effective and efficient way.

So it is not a surprise when Arthur gets a call from her in the middle of going through the dossiers about Robert Fischer for the nth time, trying to figure out any loopholes. It seems, this time, she got the information about Arthur’s failure from Ariadne (who has once told him Mal is her idol).

“Are you sure you are all right, Arthur?”

“Yes, I am. And please, tell Dom to not pull himself out of retirement just because of a botched job, Mal. I can handle it.”

“You really sure about that? This is the first time, right?”

“Yes, it is. But it doesn’t mean I can’t handle it. I have it under control.”

Arthur hears Mal sighs on the line and can make out James’ gurgle. “Don’t worry about it, okay?” he assures Mal. “I’ll get the job done in no time.” He waves the girl who is analysing one of the surveillance tapes away and sits on her seat, starting to tap a series of keys; the screen now shows the recording from three different angles and another one with the recording from his binocular.

“And how about Eames? You sure he won’t be suspicious of your injuries and you being out in the office for three full days?”

“It’s okay,” he says absently, still going over the record from one screen to another and “He’s on a trip trying to get his hands on some Andy War-”

Arthur pauses and leans closer to the screen, eyes fixed close to the footage from the binoculars. The image is blurry but he can make out the man’s profile.

“Arthur, are you still there?”

“I’m… I’m going to call you later, Mal,” Arthur says to Mal before shutting his phone and starts to work on the footage. He zooms in the image and tries to make the image clearer. The bastard’s wearing a bright orange shirt with hideous pattern, a cap, and the black shades that cover his eyes so Arthur can only look at half his face. His eyebrow raises when he sees the man’s lips start move and seem to be chewing on something as he procures a sniper rifle Arthur recognises as Blaser R93 LRS2.

The footage ends at that because that was the moment Arthur realised he was not a civilian. He replays it again, and again, and concentrates on the man’s every movement. He is so engrossed in his own thoughts and wondering of how he thinks he has seen those pair of distracting lips and weirdly familiar gloves before that he doesn’t realise Ariadne has been calling his name.

“Arthur!” Ariadne shouts loudly, breaking Arthur from his thoughts though he still doesn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“What…?”

“It’s your husband.”

Arthur blinks. He looks away from the screen to Ariadne, who is holding up a phone.

“Eames says he’s back from his trip and asks you what time you’ll get back for dinner.”

Once again Arthur turns back to the screen, thinking and wondering if it’s really possible. He looks at the blurry profile again, the more he sees it, the more he thinks he recognise the figure. “Tell him… Tell him I’m on my way and will be home at seven,” he says after a few moments of silence.

“You sure you want to go home in the middle of al—”

“Just _tell him_ , Ariadne.”

Arthur closes his eyes and clenches his fist. This cannot be happening to him.  



	5. For Better For Worse

The thing is, Eames does think that their marriage was a happy one. But that’s the problem, it’s _‘was’_.

At first he didn’t know what it was that created the space between them. The first three years were probably the happiest times of their marriage. The last two years however, it’s like the passion they had for each other flickered, and died, just like that. He thought it was just because of the mundane and monotonous routines he had to endure for five long years. He blamed it on himself, on how he had to lead a tiring double life. And also there was the fact that Arthur became an even more condescending and anal bastard. But they were both trying to mend their relationship by giving Mal’s suggestion for them to consult her father a chance.

Eames thought they were making progress. Little to almost none progress, but progress nonetheless.

Now, though, Eames doesn’t know what to think. Maybe he just needs to stop thinking altogether because it was making his head ache. It is like there is a ticking time-bomb inside his head and the more time he spends thinking of Arthur, the closer the countdown gets to zero and to blowing his brain to bits.

It is not only his head that’s suffering of course. There is the matter of that persistent painful tug in his chest that refuses to go away. He just needs to make sure that Arthur has nothing to do with the Fischer job. That it’s just a horrible coincidence. That maybe it’s just some undercover hitman working in the firm. It’s not possible that Arthur is the same person who had shot at Eames.

But Eames can’t keep on lying to himself. That’s why when he hears the familiar screeching of Arthur’s car entering the garage, he grits his teeth, taking the two tumblers of whiskey and gets ready to welcome Arthur.

“Perfect timing!” he says as a greeting when Arthur opens the kitchen door. Eames notices how Arthur stands rigid and looks a little bit more alert than usual. After resting his suitcase on the wall behind the back door, Arthur gives Eames a once over—an eyebrow rises at the black shirt Eames is wearing—and then looks at the small mess on the kitchen counter.

“As always,” Arthur says, walking closer and leans in to give Eames a small peck on the corner of his lips.

Eames tries not to clench his jaw at the all too loving, too perfect to be true gesture. Instead he smiles widely at Arthur and gives another peck in return, right on the spot where a dimple would’ve appeared if Arthur smiled.

“You got back early,” Arthur says.

“I missed you, darling,” he whispers to Arthur’s ear.

“Missed you too.”

Eames’ hold on the tumblers tighten and in a split second, he thinks he almost cracks the glass with his bare hand. He closes his eyes and pushes himself away from Arthur’s personal space.

“Welcome home,” he says flourishly, handing one of the tumblers to Arthur who takes it and looks at it as if something will jump out of the liquid. “Dinner is almost ready.”

Eames puts a hand on the small of Arthur’s back and guides him towards the dining room. Arthur doesn’t flinch or step away like usual, but his body is rigid and there is an air around him that screams ‘don’t touch me’. Eames’ eyes slide up Arthur’s lithe body, covered in his bespoke suit—Dunhill, and Eames now starts to wonder if Arthur’s earning as an architect is enough to cover for all the expenses on the bespoke suits he has in their closet—and looking sharp as usual. He is looking for clues, for anything hidden beneath the layers of clothing, noting every sharp edge and for the first time in years really _looking_ at the man he has been sharing his bed with, .

The first clue appears when Eames insists on helping Arthur out of his suit jacket. He notices how Arthur’s jaw clenches tightly when he pulls his right arm out of the sleeve. Eames is not really sure but he can make out a patch on Arthur’s left shoulder beneath the white with light blue pinstripe shirt.

“What’s the occasion?” Arthur asks as he scans the dining table, all the foods on the table are his favourite.

Eames just gives him a slightly strained smile and ushers him to take a seat while he goes to the kitchen again to take the _melanzane alla parmagiana_ and the four ramekins of _chocolate pot de crème_ out of the oven. He puts the pot de crème inside the freezer to be chilled. If nothing goes wrong—if he can make sure Arthur had nothing to do with the earlier incident at all, he tells himself—then in thirty minutes, Arthur will get to taste the special lactose free _pot de crème_.

Sometimes, Eames thinks he is too considerate, too compromising. Arthur has a lot of dislikes. He doesn’t like onions. He has sensitive teeth; hence, he doesn’t like sweet and cold desserts. He is lactose intolerant. He has a penchant to dislike some of the British cuisine Eames likes, claiming they taste too bland and ‘Mal’s cooking tastes better than that’.

It’s a tough feat, trying to sate Arthur’s every whim on the dining table, but at least, back when they were still a happy loving couple, he always showed how much he appreciated Eames’ efforts at making sure he could eat everything he wants. Now though, it’s always a small frown here, a displeased grunt there, and sometimes, a disapproving glare. It’s like anything that Eames cooks is not to his liking.

When he re-enters the dining room again, Arthur is standing by the table and is sharpening the carving knife Eames put by the large plate of beef pot roast. Eames quickly puts the _melanzane alla parmagiana_ in the middle of the table and rushes over behind Arthur’s back and clutches his right arm, stopping him from making the knife even sharper than it already is.

“Please, darling, just have a seat and let me do it,” he says smoothly to Arthur’s ear, their bodies almost touching, almost, with just a couple inches between his chest and Arthur’s back and Eames can feel Arthur’s body heat. The grip he puts on Arthur’s right wrist somehow causes Arthur to wince slightly. It comes and goes in just a blink but Eames has seen how Arthur seems to favour his right arm when he takes his seat on the other end of the dining table, dragging the chair and flicks the napkin with only his left hand. And Eames remembers how the shrimpy guy had looked as he ran down the emergency stairs cradling his rifle from his binocular after the top floor exploded. The guy’s right sleeve was stained in red.

“How was work?” he asks as he carves the beef, cutting thin slices and putting a couple on a plate.

Arthur has both his hands on the table, he is looking at Eames as if he is studying him, noting his every movement. What he’s doing is exactly the same thing Eames is doing, even as he puts the plate in front of Arthur. Their eyes meet, and there are hidden words, unspoken questions, and many flicks of uncertainty. Eames breaks off their gaze, goes to the other side of the table, his side, and opens the lid of a large soup bowl.

“Oh same old,” Arthur answers shortly. “Though… there are some problems.”

“Really?” Eames tries to sound disinterested as he ladles bouillabaisse to a soup cup. “What kind of problems?”

“Double booking. We found out there’s another firm involved in the same project.”

Eames pauses for just a millisecond. Then he continues to spoon another cup for himself before putting the other soup cup near Arthur’s water goblet. “I bet you’ve solved the problem then?” He notices how Arthur’s right hand is trembling slightly as he takes the knife.

“Not yet.” Arthur cuts a small piece of the meat and puts it in his mouth, slowly savouring the taste. “But don’t worry. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Eames hums, eyes never leaving Arthur’s, then he takes a seat and starts eating.

“How about you? I see you came back early. Did you get the paintings?” Arthur asks, wiping his mouth with the napkin. Once again his right hand shakes slightly as he takes a sip of water.

“Had a problem too. There’s another curator going after the collection. Had an _explosive_ argument. Still working on getting the collection.”

Eames sees Arthur’s eyebrow rises. He uses the term ‘explosive’ deliberately. He’s baiting for any reaction from Arthur and that single movement speaks so many words to Eames. If Arthur didn’t have anything to do with the Fischer job, Eames’ words would mean nothing to him, and he’d just brush it off. He wouldn’t even give any reaction. But Arthur is reacting, it’s only a small reaction, but it’s there.

“Is it that much of a valuable collection?” Arthur asks, calm and calculated.

“I’d kill to get the collection, Arthur,” Eames says. “But we’ll get there. It’s just a matter of time.”

The clinking of their cutlery stops. Eames looks up from his plate and once again his eyes and Arthur’s locked. The stiff and cold air around them is not an unusual thing. Their dinners together have been like this for the past months. But the silence enveloping them tonight feels different somehow. Eames feels even more distant from Arthur with all the suspicion he’s got.

After a few moments, Eames breaks the silence with a request for Arthur to open the wine he’s just bought.

Eames eyes Arthur’s every movement, right from the way he sits up, how he uses his left hand to take the bottle of Pinot Noir, to the way he’s having difficulties unscrewing the cork because his right hand is shaking so hard. Arthur’s face doesn’t give anything out, there’s a slight frown, but it’s clear to Eames that Arthur is trying to mask the pain.

Eames stands up and walks closer to Arthur. He grabs Arthur’s right arm, “Let me do it, Ar-”

But before Eames can finish his sentence, Arthur has let out a small gasp and he lets go of the wine bottle. The bottle falls to the floor, rolling under the dining table. Eames doesn’t care where the bottle rolls off to. He has his eyes fixed on Arthur, who is clutching his right hand in front of his chest, protecting it. And he sees the red spot on Arthur’s sleeve.

The look Arthur is giving him is the turning point. Eames knows that look. Arthur is panicking, the stoic mask finally breaks and his brown eyes are telling Eames everything he needs to know.

 _Arthur is the other hitman._

\--

Arthur takes off his shoes the moment he’s in the kitchen so he can bolt out of the kitchen door without making any noise. He doesn’t go straight to the garage, even though he knows he should get away from Eames immediately. He doesn’t have weapons with him and he can’t go back in, runs up to get any of his guns from his study, not without knowing where Eames is. There is a pair of Para Ordnance under the seat of his car but Arthur just wants to know first, just needs to make sure this is really _not_ just a horrible nightmare. He has to know that this is real, that his Eames, his own husband, is the very same assassin who made him fail at completing the Fischer job.

He presses his back to the wall, bending down when he passes the kitchen windows and tries to make out any noise from inside the house. When he hears Eames’ voice calls out, “Arthur? Darling?”, he carefully takes a look inside from the sitting room’s window. The ugly curtains that Eames still stubbornly keeps is obstructing his view, but Arthur can see him—Eames in the black shirt Arthur likes; Eames who is holding a gun—a suppressed SIG Sauer—and his finger is hovering just so near the trigger.

“Fuck!” Arthur curses and runs straight to the garage.

He slams the side door open, uses the remote control to open the garage door and dunks in to his car. His hands are shaking and he’s breathing heavily like he has just run a marathon. He doesn’t wait until the door fully opens, he just needs it to open high enough so his car can pass through. He can hear Eames shouting his name when the car skids out to the curb. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back. He just pushes the gas pedal and increases the speed.

Arthur does not care that he doesn’t have his shoes on. He doesn’t care that he is currently breaking the speed limit in the suburban neighbourhood. He doesn’t care that there is a large red spot on his right sleeve, and it’s growing larger steadily the more Arthur tightens his hold on the steering wheel.

He tries to calm himself, to even his breath, but he can’t. He can’t stop cursing himself, cursing everything in his fucked up life and then he slams his hand to the steering wheel and yells, “How could I be so stupid?!” It does nothing but adds more pain to his injured arm.

Arthur loosens his tie with his right hand—fingers shaking, his left still gripping the steering wheel tightly. His heart is hammering his ribcage and Arthur just can’t stop thinking how stupid he is, how foolish he has been in the past five years. He can just imagine how it will be, if everyone in The Organisation knows the one who jeopardised the Fischer job was actually Mr. Arthur Eames’ own husband. Of course, it’s not as though _everyone_ in The Organisation knows Arthur is married, only the ones stationed in his architecture firm. But that doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

The news will spread like a wildfire. Everyone, even the janitor, will know Mr. Arthur, the so called finest and most ruthless assassin of The Organisation, has been deceived by his own spouse. He’ll be laughing stock of the week, month, or year even.

He needs to do something, something real quick before his boss gets wind of this. Of course his boss knows about his marital status. Arthur had told him firsthand that ‘no, Sir, it will not be a hindrance at all’, that Eames would never know Arthur’s true occupation. His boss had been sceptical but Arthur insisted everything would be all right.

Arthur scoffs at himself, at how gullible he was, and how blinded he was by love that he had ignored everything. Just to be with Eames. He was so sure about Eames back then, so sure that they could be happy together despite everything. But that was when he thought Eames was only an art curator who owned a gallery in midtown New York. Now, now Arthur isn’t so sure.

He doesn’t know what he should do once his boss knows. His boss gave him forty eight hours to ‘clean the scene’, meaning Arthur has forty five hours left to find a way to untangle the whole mess he’s in. He doesn’t have many options to choose from.

Right now Arthur’s only option is to get as far away as possible from Eames. But it looks as though he will not even have the luxury of taking that option because he can see Eames’ car tailing closer from the rear window. Fuelled with anger, Arthur drops a gear and halts the car suddenly, causing their cars to collide, and then he pushes up the speed again.

Eames recovers from the collision faster than Arthur expects. Eames’ car swerves past a car between them and in just a quick glance, Arthur sees Eames has already caught up with him. Eames has his passenger seat window down and he’s shouting at Arthur. Arthur can’t make out clearly what Eames is saying but he can hear a muffled ‘…need to talk!’.

The scowl on his forehead deepens and he shoots Eames a cold glare. He pushes a button and his window rolls down. The cold night air hits his face hard and he’s shivering immediately. “There’s nothing to talk about!” he shouts, his eyes still on the road.

“You don’t want to go to bed angry, Arthur. Stop the car!”

Arthur turns to Eames and hopes he will just burn in hell. “You _lied_ to me!” He takes a swift turn and bumps his car to Eames’, causing sparks to fly.

“Don’t dent the fucking car!” Eames yells as his car skids out of the lane and is almost hit by a car coming from opposite direction.

Arthur grits his teeth, closes the window and speeds up again. Once more, Eames catches up to him and this time he swerves around Arthur’s car to the other side. Arthur tries to gain some distance but it’s difficult with Eames trying to take the lane. Having no other choice, Arthur pushes the gas again and bumps their cars while shouting, “Get out of my fucking lane!”

Right after this third collision, Arthur hears a swift zing and then hears something passing by his head at high speed. He stamps on the brake at the same time as Eames’ car skids to a halt. He looks at the hole in the passenger seat window and then to the one on his other side.

Blood boiling to a dangerous degree, Arthur turns to the right and shoots Eames his most pissed off look. Eames looks startled, but Arthur doesn’t buy that. Arthur should never believe that face anymore.

“Accident!” Eames shouts, holding his two hands up. His right hand is holding a suppressed SIG with his forefinger off the trigger. “It’s an accident!”

Arthur doesn’t care and doesn’t want to care. He bends down and reaches to the small compartment under his seat. There are two Para Ordnances hidden there, he takes one and clicks the safety off, Arthur starts shooting Eames’ car. He sees Eames ducks down when the window starts shattering, showering him with broken glass. Arthur keeps shooting until there’s only empty click, he’s breathing heavily and his right hand, still holding the gun, is shaking both from the recoil and from the pain surging up and down. He clips the empty magazine out and reaches into the glove compartment for a spare.

After a few seconds of silence Arthur sees Eames rises up. There are splinters of glasses in his hair and a cut on his left cheek.

“Arthur, you’re over-reacting!”

It is just so Eames to rile Arthur up in this kind of situation. Arthur bites his tongue and opts to starts driving away again. His right hand will be of no use if he keeps on straining it like that and he really, really doesn’t want to see Eames’ face any more.

Arthur keeps a hold of his gun, using only his left hand to navigate the steering wheel. He notices a sign on the roadside, ‘OFF-RAMP INCOMING’ it says. He takes a deep breath and lowers his speed, letting Eames catch up to him.

He shoots another round to Eames’ car, breaking the windshield as Eames bends down again to avoid the rain of bullets. Arthur speeds up , letting go of the gun and gripping the steering wheel tightly to steady his shaking hand. Eames’ car zooms close and they’re head to head now. The speedometer shows that he’s driving at 130 mph.

Arthur closes his eyes for just a second and then he turns to Eames. Their eyes meet, and Arthur feels his chest tighten and it is really difficult to keep breathing. It feels like the very first time they met, back in that hotel, in Mombasa. He remembers the spark of attraction.

“You lied to me too!” Eames shouts.

It’s true. They have both been lying to each other. They are both no better than the other. And it makes Arthur feel even worse.

So Arthur gives Eames a wry smile, takes a screeching turn and slams the brake. He sees how Eames’ car goes straight towards the ramp. He hears how the steel guardrails collide with the front of the car, the car crashing through it. He tries to keep calm as he hears a loud splash, the car falling down to the river over the ramp, and then silence.

There is only the sound of his laboured breathing and the soft whirring of the engine. Arthur bumps his head to the steering wheel and closes his eyes tightly, ignoring the pain in his right hand. After a couple of minutes, he takes a deep breath, grabs both guns this time, unbuckles the safety belt and steps out of the car. Barefooted, he walks towards the ramp wall and looks down to the river.

Guns in both hands Arthur sweeps the river, trying to see through the darkness. But it is too dark. There is nothing, no bubbles of air, no movement, no Eames. He stops at a spot and waits. A minute passes. Still no Eames.

Suddenly Arthur hears sirens. Before the police get to him he has to get away from this place.

Arthur takes another glance to the river—still nothing. He lowers his guns and goes back to his car. He slumps his head on to the steering wheel again, trying not to think.

He doesn’t know where to go.  


* * *

  


The door is opened and Yusuf gives Eames yet another one of his looks. It says, ‘what in the bloody hell have you done to yourself this time?’. But Yusuf doesn’t keep his wondering of how stupid Eames is to himself this time, he says it out loud.

“My Arthur,” Eames grunts, shoving Yusuf away and storming into the flat.

“Oh wow, he’s resorted to domestic violence now?” Yusuf asks, pointing at the state of Eames’ torn shirt, bloodied knees, and the overall ‘I just jumped off a ledge straight into a bloody river’ look. “About time, took him long enough.”

Eames stomps his way to Yusuf’s kitchen, wet shoes squeaking and leaving mud trails on the floor. He violently opens the fridge. He scowls at the suspicious looking bottles and beakers nside. “Beer, Yusuf. I need lots of them right now.”

Yusuf sighs and shoves Eames away, telling him to sit on one of the chairs surrounding the small rectangle dining table and muttering how lucky Eames is because his wife is currently back in her parents’ home for the monthly visit. He opens the lower drawer and pulls out a six pack beer from it. Eames plucks oneand downs almost half of its contents before taking a deep breath and facing Yusuf.

“Arthur’s that other hitman,” he begins. And saying it out loud doesn’t make the pain in his chest any better. Instead it’s getting more and more painful. Because saying it out loud to someone else feels like he has just cemented the fact that Arthur has destroyed the foundation of their marriage by lying about his occupation.

Yusuf doesn’t say anything until Eames finishes his first can of beer. And Eames feels he needs the silence at the moment.

“It’s… _implausible_ ,” Yusuf croaks out after what feels like half an hour while in truth it’s only a couple of minutes.

“Believe it or not, my friend.” Eames pops out another can and downs the beer. He stands up and paces back and forth.

“No, I mean, really. What are the chances of that happening?”

“It has happened, if you haven’t realised.”

\--

It feels so cold in the office, even without the air conditioner on, and Arthur shivers. He only has his undershirt on and his shirt is draped haphazardly on the sofa’s armrest. The shiver might have been caused by the stinging pain on his arm. It might also have been caused by the chilled bottle of vodka he is holding. The coldness seems to intensify as the scene of Eames’ car flew down the river replays in his mind

“You’re kidding,” Ariadne says, rolling the bandage around Arthur’s right arm after she stitches the gash again. She’s kneeling beside him on the floor, the medical kit box open near her.

Arthur takes a large gulp of vodka straight from the bottle and Ariadne tsks at him. “Nope. When have I ever told you a joke, Ariadne?”

“Sometimes. A rarity though. I’m starting to think you don’t have a single funny bone in your skinny body,” Ariadne says as-a-matter-of-factly, fastening the bandage and gives it a light pat.

“I’m not skinny,” he says, scowling at her.

Ariadne sighs and gives Arthur a sympathetic look. “But are you sure it’s Eames? Your husband? The one who’s also after Fischer?”

Arthur closes his eyes and hopes the alcohol can quickly numb body. And preferably numb the pain in his chest too or he’ll explode.

“The very same.”

Arthur really hates the look on Ariadne’s face and he hopes she would just leave for now. Or maybe for ever. He needs to be alone but he also doesn’t want to be alone.

“But how could it be possible?”

Arthur wants an answer to that question too. He has no answer to that question.

\--

Eames washes his hair in the kitchen sink, a towel draped around his shoulders. It’s cold and the shirt is clinging to his skin. He needs a shower, to clean his whole body, and maybe to clean the contents of his head too, if it’s even possible.

Yusuf is still giving him an apprehensive look and he doesn’t like that look. Eames doesn’t want Yusuf’s pity. He doesn’t anyone to pity him for falling in love with the enemy. Arthur _is_ an enemy, he convinces himself. What would you call someone who’s shot you during one of your jobs, if not your enemy? Even if said enemy is incidentally also your own bloody husband?

“So… you mean he’s been doing this from the start?”

Eames shrugs at Yusuf’s question, unbuttoning his ruined shirt and shrugging it off. “Who knows? I can’t believe he’s been lying to me all these years.”

“You should realise that you’re not really playing straight yourself, Eames.”

“That’s completely different!” Eames frowns at Yusuf, plopping down on the chair again, his trousers feel utterly uncomfortable clinging like that. “I married him because I loved him.”

Yusuf doesn’t respond for a few moments and there is only the sound of water dripping from the faucet on the sink. Eames wipes his face dry and keeps the towel covering his face.

“Well…” Yusuf starts again. “Do you still love him?” Eames drops the towel and goes to speak when Yusuf stops him. “Wait, don’t answer that. You should sleep on this. You’re both upset.”

“Upset? Upse-Yusuf, he wants to _kill_ me!” And if only Eames hadn’t been able to hold his breath for longer than five minutes, Arthur would be successful.

“That’s not unusual. My wife says she wants to kill me every time we have a row,” Yusuf says wisely, sipping on his lukewarm coffee.

Eames gives Yusuf an incredulous look. “You didn’t see Arthur firing fifteen bloody shots to my car! And he drove me off the road into the river.”

Yusuf clears his throat and shifts in his seat, looking a bit uncomfortable and trying to hide his grimace. “Well… that’s _less_ usual, I must admit. But trust me, right now he’s probably as confused as you are. Hurt… and vulnerable… perhaps.”

“He didn’t seem vulnerable to me,” Eames says indignantly. But Eames can’t help but wonder for a moment if Yusuf is right. Considering that he’s still angry though, he doesn’t want to think further whether Arthur is as hurt as he feels at the moment.

“Just get some sleep, mate,” Yusuf suggests, standing up and patting his shoulder. “See him in the morning, talk to him. Maybe buy him a new suit or something. Be nice…”

Eames sighs and rakes his fingers through his damp hair. “You don’t understand, Yusuf. He’s the other hitman. Arthur ID’d me on the Fischer job. Don’t you remember Boss’ message? Don’t you realise what all these mean?”

Yusuf doesn’t answer and even without looking, Eames knows Yusuf clearly understands what it means.

After giving Eames a change of clothes,Yusuf bids him good night and tells him to take the sofa and sleep it off. Eames can only sit, looking to the painting hanging on the wall and trying to rearrange his messed up thoughts. He’s clutching the blanket on his lap tightly as he thinks about Arthur again and he thumbs the ring on his left hand. He looks down and brings his fist up, looking at the platinum ring glinting as the light from the sitting room lamp hits it. He takes the ring off and looks at the letters inscribed inside.

Before they got married, he and Arthur had agreed to inscript a word of their own choice to each other’s ring. Eames had chosen ‘Darling’, a petname he often used for Arthur, for Arthur’s ring. The reason why Eames had chosen the word was because to him, Arthur would always be his beloved darling.

Arthur, on the other hand, had chosen to write something more common—and typical, perhaps—and put ‘Forever’ for Eames’ ring. Arthur never really told him why he chose the word and Eames never really bothered to ask because the word, to him, was already enough of a statement.

Now though, now Eames doesn’t really know what to think about the word. He had thought it meant that Arthur would love him forever, or that they’d be together forever, things like that. But after tonight, he supposes there will be no more ‘Forever’ in his and Arthur’s life.

Eames puts the ring on the coffee table by the sofa and looks at it for another couple of minutes before moving his gaze to the phone, also on the table. He’s reminded of how his mobile phones—all two of them—are now worse for wear after his diving into the river stint. Try as he might, he cannot pull up enough care for his beloved—now destructed—phones. How can he, when his mind is already filled with this whole… thing with Arthur. Who can give a damn about mobile phones?

He sighs. There’s no escaping it now. His marriage, and his life in general, is fucked up. He doubts that even Miles and all his wisdom from his thick books on psychology can help them. Best thing he could advise them is to ‘talk their problem through’. Yeah, right, Eames thinks with a snort. What a splendid idea. Talk. Don’t they say that all relationship problems stem from that little word called ‘communication’? But he wonders what would have happened if he and Arthur did ‘communicate’. What would they say? What would they accomplish?

Probably nothing, other than the fact that he and Arthur would have tried to kill each other sooner. And thinking about the prospect makes his mouth go dry and his stomach clench. Consequently, it also makes him angry and even more frustrated, and generally worse than before.

He’s ashamed to admit that he’s really tempted to call his Mum and bemoan his fate to her.

Snorting, he tries to think just how Arthur might mock him if he can see him now. Arthur knows how he only calls his Mum when he’s in a tight spot, ranting to her in a way that belies his age. Arthur used to tease him because of that, saying that it proves that he’s just a big baby after all.

But now Arthur won’t do that again. Really. Arthur prefers to shoot him than to tease him nowadays. And anyone who says words are more lethal than bullets surely never experienced the fate of being shot by their own goddamn husband.

With resigned surprise, Eames finds his hand reaching out for the phone. Sighing, he admits defeat and dials his mother’s private line.

It should be around afternoon in London at the moment and his mother must be having the good old fashioned tea time with his younger sisters. He bites his lip as the phone rings two times before his Mum picks up. Hearing that gentle sound of hers, Eames closes his eyes and slumps deeper into the sofa.

“Hello,” his mother’s voice carries through the phone connection, way across the Atlantic and Eames somehow imagines that he can smell her lavender perfume vividly. “Good afternoon, who’s speaking?”

“Hello, Mum,” he says with the kind of voice that he hopes might conceal his restless mind. “It’s me.”

“William.” His mother sounds happy to hear his voice. “So rare for you to call your dear old Mum. What’s happened now?”

In the background, he can hear the ecstatic voice of his littlest sister saying ‘Is that Willy? Is Arthur with him? Mum, please let me speak to him’ and a smile breaks on his face. Mary, his dearest sister, has had a crush on Arthur ever since the first time Eames introduced him to the family. It’s almost funny, how Arthur keeps being polite to her while fending off her apparent adoration.

He can hear his mother gently scolding her daughter to mind her manners and he chuckles. Arthur always says that he’s a gentleman. Guess he should thank his mother for that.

But still, a voice says in his head, what kind of gentleman shot his own partner?

“William?” his mother’s voice startles him a little bit from his grim thought reality in which he and Arthur are trying to kill each other. “What’s wrong, son?”

“Nothing, I just… miss you, I guess,” he says. “How are you?”

“Same old, dearest. A household to take care of, a young lady to be raised still…” There’s a faint ‘Mum!’ from Mary and Eames chuckles, “… and still hoping my one and only dearest son will come home with my son-in-law for a visit.”

This time, Eames really flinches.

“Mum, you know that we…” He tries to think of something to say and finds that he can’t really fill the blank that follows. Surely he can’t tell his Mum that the reason he and Arthur can’t visit is because they’re in a really big fight. A big fight that involves firearms, even. Because even though Eames can say that he’s fond of his Mum and that their relationship is close, there are things that he still keeps from her. One of those so-called ‘things’ was the fact that her dear little William is not an art curator but an assassin for hire. He never tells her that and he plans on never telling her that. It’s his secret to keep and it’s better than to have her worry over him.

“I know that you both are busy, ducklings,” his Mum says. “Though I start to resent that country for keeping my sons away from me, but what's an old lady like me to do? You both have a life of your own.”

“How’s Father?” Eames quickly says, half because he wants to steer the conversation to some safer route and half because he can’t bear the hurt he feels when his mother mentions about ‘a life of your own’. His life with Arthur is over now.

“Still trying to convince Amelia’s fiancé to take our family name. He seems to have finally given up on you coming back.”

“He should’ve realised it’s futile to make me take over his position years ago.”

“You know how stubborn your father is. You take after him after all.”

“Mum,” he says with a despairing sigh. “I’m not calling you only to hear you reciting that over and over again.”

“Oh, of course, dear. Now if we don’t talk about your father, why don’t we talk about you,” his mother says and before Eames could even think ‘oh damn’, his mother asks, “How are you and Arthur?”

His mother knows about his strained relationship with Arthur. He has told her about that, even though she never really knows to what extent. She only thinks they’re having a phase. Something that, she has told him, is not unusual in married life.

“We’re fine,” Eames lies automatically.

His mother makes a delicate cluck of her tongue. “Nonsense. You think you can lie to your mother, young man?”

Funny, Eames thinks, how his mother never knew he was lying about his real work for all these years when she can tell he’s lying right now over the phone.

“You would never call me if there was nothing wrong,” his mother continues. “What happened?”

“Just… the usual. You know about it, Mum…” Eames says with a sigh.

“Darling, I’ve told you that every marriage has its up and down,” his mother says and Eames wonders if other people’s marriages have the kind of ‘down’ moment that involves car chases and gunshots and all kinds of dangerous business. “I know you’re a man, now, William, and you won’t need your Mum meddling with your business, so I try not to get in the way. I just hate to imagine you and Arthur having problems… darling you two are so in love it breaks my heart thinking about you two in a quarrel.”

“I know, Mum, please don’t worry, it’s not… that bad,” Eames says and he feels like a thousand kind of liars for saying it. “I just called because I wanted to hear your voice, really.”

“I know that’s not the complete truth,” his mother says. “But… I suppose, perhaps this time I can let it pass. Just this once, for the sake of my darling son who almost never called his mother.”

Eames smiles. “You always spoil me, Mum.”

“And sometimes I wonder why,” his mother says, making Eames chuckle. “Now, Mary wants to speak with you, if I am to judge by the way she’s tugging at my sleeve. Really, you lot, I thought I raised you to be well-mannered people yet look at you. Here’s your sister, William.”

He only has a few seconds to brace himself before his sister’s rapid speech begins assaulting his ears. He can only cringe as he listens to Mary’s latest rendition of ‘why my brother Willy is an idiot’ which, this time, mostly consists of ‘I can’t believe you dared not showing up for Amelia’s wedding, Willy, how could you’. Finished with that, she launched onto a rant about her studies, about the boys from school and how they’re all not on par with her most delightful (her exact words) brother-in-law, how she wishes there are more men like Arthur around. And she curses Eames for hogging on the best for himself.

Eames can only listen and makes sure to drop ‘uh-hum’ and ‘I see’ here and there to let Mary know that he’s still listening. It feels so… normal to listen to his sister. So normal, in the midst of all this chaos that his life has become. He can even say it feels a little surreal to laugh with his sister via the phone, talking about Arthur of all things when he has just tried to shoot Arthur a couple of hours ago.

He just wants to bask in the normalcy, because if he doesn’t do that he will be going insane. He just want to talk about Arthur, because he’s afraid he might start thinking of him as ‘the enemy’ and forget about all those years they have had. He just wants to forget the last couple of hours of his life, because remembering them causes him too much pain.

He just wants to laugh, because he doesn’t want to cry.

\--

As Ariadne clears up the medical kit, Arthur gathers his ruined shirt. It smells of sweat, cologne, and blood. To be honest, it’s not really a comforting scent at all but it somehow fits the mood. And, he thinks as he put the shirt on, at least it will keep him warm.

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” Ariadne asks, shutting the box as she stands up. She’s giving him one of those look again, the one which shows equal parts pity and worry.

Arthur nods and slumps back to the sofa. He closes his eyes and drapes his uninjured arm over them, trying to block out the light, as if by doing that he might also block his mind from remembering what events have taken place during the last couple of hours.

“Are you really sure, Arthur?”

He’s tired and he wants to be alone. “Yes, Ariadne. Now, can you ple-”

Ariadne cuts him before he can finish his sentence. “Do you realise you have to kill him now that you know he’s ID’d you?”

Arthur drops his arm down and looks at Ariadne. That look is still there on her face. How could she speak about killing Eames while giving him that look? He hates it.

“Of course,” he answers stiffly, leaning back again. “If he’s not already dead after getting shot fifteen times, that is.”

Oh yes, he’s keeping count. Arthur is a professional. Of course he will keep count, how many bullets he has spent, how many shots he has fired, how many times he has tried to hurt—to kill Eames.

Ariadne’s frown deepens but she doesn’t say anything. In a sense, Arthur enjoys the silence but he knows that Ariadne is still thinking about something. And when she launches her next question, it takes him by surprise.

“Do you love him, Arthur?”

Arthur sighs and knows he’s showing too much, letting Ariadne sees too much of his vulnerable side. But Ariadne is a smart girl and Arthur is too tired to tell her any lies. Arthur knows Ariadne will just keep on prying if he doesn’t say anything.

“I thought I did,” he says. “I thought _he_ did.”

“Do _you_ still love him then?”

“He lied to me,” he replies without really answering the question.

“And you lied to him too.” Ariadne pauses and sits on the sofa, her hand hovering just above Arthur’s forehead. He feels her small fingers massaging his temples lightly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No and you can leave now,” he answers immediately. Ariadne has been working as his assistant for a year and a half, she knows how to deal with his perfectionism and can see through almost everything. She’s a busybody but Arthur sort of thinks she can even be counted as a friend. Other than the Cobbs, Arthur doesn’t know any other people he still considers friends. But this is where Arthur draws a line. He just can’t share, or talk, or even think about this matter at the moment. Not with anyone or even himself.

Arthur hears Ariadne sigh and stand up again. A moment later, a thin blanket is draped over him. Sweet Ariadne, his dependable assistant, partner—friend. No matter what, she still cares about him and the simple act of kindness touches Arthur’s heart.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, opening his eyes blearily.

“You’re welcome, Boss,” Ariadne says, smiling ruefully.

Arthur gives Ariadne a dismissal nod. He buries his face in the blanket after Ariadne bids him good night and closes the door.

His head is still spinning even though he’s tried his hardest to stop thinking.

He feels a vibration from his pocket, it is his phone. He really wants to chuck the phone away. He doesn’t think he’s in the right mind to answer any calls. After the vibration stops, Arthur sighs and takes another swig from his bottle of vodka. He grabs one of the cushions from the sofa and lays it down on the floor. Another swig and he lies down on the cushion, feeling his throat burns and his chest constricts.

His phone starts vibrating again, thinking maybe it’s a call from his boss, he takes it out and looks at the caller ID. It’s Mal.

“Hm?”

“Arthur?”

“Yeah, what’s up?” he slurs.

“Are you drunk, Arthur?” Mal asks. Even in his state of half drunkenness, Arthur can still sense the concern in Mal’s voice. He can’t guess, though, what makes her sound so worried.

“Not really,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

“I called your house but no one answered. Where are you right now?”

Arthur looks around his office, taking in the architectural models Ariadne had built and forced him to put on display, the three laptops on his desk, and the two [Para Ordinance P18.9](http://www.imfdb.org/index.php/Image:Para_Ordinance_P-18_9mm.jpg)s on the floor. “My office.”

“Why aren’t you at home?”

For a moment, he feels like snorting. Home, he thinks bitterly, why isn’t he at home? Where is his home? That house he owns with Eames, it’s not his home anymore. Not after he knew Eames is never an art curator, not after he realised the countless lies being spoken in that house, not after Eames shot him…

And a voice on the back of his mind whispered ‘and not after you lie to him, not after you shot him, not after you tried to kill him with your own hands, drenched in blood without any shame…’

“Are you having a fight again?”

He takes a deep breath. His eyes are starting to sting. He must have had too much drink.

“Five years isn’t a short time, Arthur,” Mal says carefully.

“I know,” he says, hoping that Mal won’t notice how his voice breaks.

“Look, I… you might hate me for saying this and you might be already bored listening to this over and over again, but Arthur…” Mal says. “Don’t let mere differences break the relationship you both have tried so hard to build for five long years.”

Arthur doesn’t think lying about your real occupation can be counted as a ‘mere difference’. But he’s not one to talk.

“I know, Mal.”

“When you love someone,” Mal continues, “You love all of them. Didn’t you say it yourself in your wedding vow, Arthur? Didn’t you promise to love and cherish, for better and for worse? Do you remember that?”

Arthur closes his eyes. He can see their wedding day again behind his eyelids. He can remember Eames’ smile and the way his lips felt against Arthur’s after they were pronounced married.

“I do,” he says softly, echoing his vow that day.

“Welcome to ‘worse’,” Mal says. “Now the question is, do you still ‘love and cherish’ him?”

He lets go of the bottle of vodka and grasps his shirt, right above his chest. It’s not just about the bad things or the petty things he doesn’t like about Eames. Even after their life together has turned into a plain and boring routine, Arthur has never even once thought that he doesn’t love Eames anymore. Yes, he had said to Miles that perhaps marrying Eames had just been a mistake and it’s hard to keep being in love with him, but Arthur could never imagine how his life would be if he never fell in love with Eames.

It’s never the question of whether he loves Eames or not, no matter what Ariadne or Mal or—God—even Eames thinks. He loves William Eames. But he wonders now if Eames ever loved him in return. He wonders now if it was all just a cover. He wonders now if all the years he has had with Eames were mere illusion.

“Just think about it, okay? And Arthur… you don’t want it to end like this.”

Only thing is, Arthur thinks, it has already ended. It ended the moment his and Eames’ paths crossed during the Fischer job.

“I will,” Arthur says—lies, his mind tells him. “I’ll try, Mal. I will.”  



	6. For Richer For Poorer

“So, what are you going to do?”

It is the break of the dawn and Eames has just woken up feeling like shit. His brain still hasn’t caught up with the time yet and Yusuf has already started the conversation. He groggily shoves the blanket off himself and takes the cup of tea—thank God, it’s not the shitty coffee—Yusuf offers. He takes a sip and tries to connect his brain to the living world again. He didn’t really have a good sleep, he kept on having dreams about Arthur shooting at him.

“What do you think I should do? I don’t remember if during the orientation day they included the information on how to deal with a problem in which you find out your spouse is actually an assassin from the rival agency. I didn’t really pay attention.”

Yusuf doesn’t look like he approves of his words, but Eames doesn’t care. “They didn’t. And spare me sarcasm, Eames.”

“My bad.”

“The worst possible scenario is he comes to kill you.”

Eames frowns at his teacup and doesn’t look at Yusuf in the eyes.

“He knows the rules, Eames. As you do,” Yusuf continues. “It’s all just the same in any agency. You do not let anyone who ID’d you live.”

“Spare me the technicalities, Yusuf. I’ve memorised the rules since ten years ago.”

“So _do_ this.” Eames tries not to flinch too much. “And be done with it. Mourn a week, or two, or a month, I’ll even talk to the boss about giving you some time off. You’ll get drunk and I’ll provide you the perfect concoction for hangover. After that you’ll wake up clean and free. Just keep telling yourself: you don’t love him.”

“That’s not what you told me last night.”

Yusuf shrugs. “Things change, Eames. Arthur is not your husband. He’s your enemy.”

And Eames nods, thinking ‘he’s not my husband, he’s not my husband’ over and over again. He has accepted the fact that Arthur is an enemy last night. It is time to accept the fact that to escape the huge mess he’s in, he has to stop thinking of Arthur as his husband, the one person he’s loved for the past five years. Eames slaps himself on the cheek and turns to Yusuf who’s giving him a weird look.

“He tried to kill me,” Eames says.

“And he will do it again. Tell me how you are going to handle it then?”

Eames is thinking about his weapon stash in the kitchen and in his study at home. It will be too risky to go back and get them. “You think you have any guns I can use?”

“I have some poisons, if you want.” Yusuf points out to the lines of bottles on the far side of the living room. They are all filled with liquid of many colours.

“And risk killing myself with it? No, I don’t think so.” He stands up and starts pacing. “I have to go back.”

“Go back to where?”

“Home.” He flinches when he says it. That house is not your home anymore, he tells himself. “I mean, get to the house and get my guns back.”

“And find anything you can while you’re at that. Get in to his life. Find out who he really is.”

Eames wants to say he knows everything about Arthur, but he doesn’t voice it, because that’s the exact moment he realises he doesn’t really know the _real_ Arthur. If Arthur could have kept the secret of being an assassin for five whole years, what other things has he hidden from Eames?

\--

Arthur steps out of the car—wearing all-black attire plus white skinny tie—and pushes the shades up his nose.He silently motions his team to start the investigation by giving Max, the investigation team leader, the keys. Ariadne stands beside him as she keeps looking at Arthur with an expression that says ‘you look like shit’. She is lucky the only name on Arthur’s hit list and his main priority at this moment is William Eames, and not hers.

“Pocket litter. Matchbooks. Receipts. Everything,” says Max to the others. “You know the drill.”

As the team starts entering the house, Arthur stands on the porch, his back to the main door and both his hands in his pants pocket. He looks at the empty suburban road and waves to the paper boy when he passes by with his bicycle, throwing the newspaper to the front lawn over the fence. He doesn’t make any move to get the paper but his gaze turns to his left, to the pots of gloxinia. There are dried leaves around the pots and a lot of the flowers are wilting. It’s ironic, he thinks, how the flowers represents their current situation. The love that started on their first sight of each other has has been dying slowly and now it’s at the edge of complete demise.

He looks away from the flowers, takes a deep breath and tries to swallow the clog in his throat. He doesn’t realise Ariadne is behind him until he takes a step back into the house, and bumps into her. They enter the house and go straight to the sitting room.

“Having second thoughts?” Ariadne asks, when Arthur stops to stare at the many framed pictures hanging on one side of the wall for a couple of seconds longer than necessary. The pictures are mainly of him and Eames during their first couple of years of marriage, still looking happy and content—and in love—with each other.

Arthur looks down to Ariadne and then shakes his head. “No… I just,” he pauses and glances at one photo of Eames hugging him from behind (both smiling too widely to the camera) as they stand in front of the Eames’ manor—it was taken by Amelia, Eames’ younger sister, just before they left England to begin their life together in New York. He clears his throat, “I’m just checking the personal effects.”

“Find anything… personal?”

Arthur knows what Ariadne’s question means. He keeps his cool and says, “No leads. The mark covered his tracks.” He’s making sure his voice doesn’t break, and keeps his cool.

Ariadne sighs and shakes her head. She takes a couple of steps closer, takes one picture off the wall—a picture of Arthur feeding Eames a slice of cake mouth to mouth during Eames’ thirtieth birthday—and shows it to Arthur. “The ‘mark’? This man,” she points to Eames in the picture, “is also your _husband_ , Arthur.”

“I _don’t_ know who he is!” Arthur raises his voice and realises what he’s just done when Ariadne takes a step back away from him. He composes himself and massages his temple, easing the budding migraine. “He’s a security risk, Ariadne. He knows me. He’s compromised everyone here.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure _you_ aren’t compromising everyone now?”

Arthur doesn’t have any answer to that and Ariadne is giving him another of her pitying looks. He walks away from the wall of pictures and slumps onto the sofa, throws the shade onto the table and covers his eyes with his left hand. He feels Ariadne sits down beside him.

“You know…”she starts, “You’re not the first person in the world to find out his life is a lie.”

He moves his arm away and glances sideways to Ariadne. “I know. But I thought it was _my_ lie.”

\--

It takes all of Eames’ self-restraint not to start shooting everything in sight.

The house is clean. The food on the dining table that was left untouched the night before has been thrown away. The kitchen is sparkling clean. There is no dust on the cabinets in the sitting room. Eames can even smell a lemon fragrance wafting in the air.

He doesn’t really care about the cleanliness of it all. What he really cares about is the state of his private study. It is also clean, as in stripped clean, the room is almost empty. There are only a desk, bookshelves—also empty— and some empty boxes lying around. He’s not so stupid as to keep his real work files lying around in the study of course so he’s not really worried about that—besides, it is mostly Yusuf’s job to keep tabs on all the paperwork. What pisses him off to no end is how there’s nothing left of his beloved firearm collection.

No SIGs, no Blasers, no Heckler& Kochs, no Berettas, not even the Glocks are spared. All hidden compartments and spaces have been found and stripped clean. He should’ve expected this. _Should have_ , knowing how crazy and angry and dangerous his dearest Arthur is.

Arthur was quite thorough with his search, unfortunately, because Eames can’t find anything from the hidden spaces in the cabinets in the kitchen as well. The fucker.

Eames’ eyes moves to stare at the oven. Arthur has never touched the oven, at least never without Eames’ supervision. It’s still a possibility though. So he braces himself for the worst as he waits for the oven to stop beeping. He taps the code in and pulls the door open. As the steel drawers slides open one by one, Eames lets out a relieved breath. At least, Arthur didn’t actually find out about the oven, he thinks, touching one of the H&K magazines.

Then Eames makes his way up to the second floor. Arthur has crossed over the line. It’s justified that Eames does the same, by checking Arthur’s private study. It is locked of course. Luckily, picking locks is one of Eames’ many skills.

He starts picking at the lock. Less than a couple of minutes later, the door unlocks with a small click. He steps in and quickly scans the study. Nothing out of the ordinary. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing hidden. He’s sure Arthur keeps something in this room too—like he himself did—and he starts searching. He opens every drawer, moves every painting or picture frame hanging on the wall, and he also doesn’t forget to check the thick books Arthur has (Eames himself made a box that kept one of his guns to look like a very thick book).

Then he notices something out of the corner of his eyes—a medium sized black suitcase is resting against the wall beside the bookshelves. Eames raises an eyebrow at it; it’s Arthur’s suitcase, the one that he brought for his ‘trip’. He takes the suitcase and heaves it up to Arthur’s working table. He unzips it and he whistles at the disassembled pieces of a sniper rifle.

And then an idea pops up in his mind.

Eames starts to formulate a plan, a plan to visit Arthur. He begins by zipping the suitcase up, going back to the kitchen and takes a couple of daggers and one gun from the drawers. He takes out the phone Yusuf has given him and dials Charlie’s number. Charlie picks up after five rings.

“I need your help,” Eames says before Charlie can say anything. He hears him groans and he has to smirk.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eames!” Charlie curses. “It hasn’t even been a week. Wait, let me correct that. I meant, less than _three days_. You asking for another favour already?”

“Don’t complain. I’ll pay you, okay? Payment plus I’ll owe you a big favour.”

“No! You mean, _your boss_ pays me.”

Eames pulls the suitcase out through the backdoor and proceeds to the garage. “Same difference.”

“All right… What do you need?” Charlie sighs.

“You still have the address you got from the laptop I brought the other day?” he asks, as he gathers a bag full with climbing gears.

He hears some tapping and then Charlie answers, “Yeah, I think so. Why d’you ask?”

“I believe that building uses a remote management elevator control system.” Thankfully Eames remembers that bit of information Arthur gave him after that little accident where he’s stuck in the elevator due to some error in the security system. “I want you to hack into the security and the elevator control system to do something for me.”

There’s a short silence before Charlie groans audibly. “Eames, tell me you’re not actually going to make me one of your accomplices for your job.”

“No, mate!” Eames laughs, both because of Charlie’s complaint and the plan that’s forming in his head. “You just need to make sure they don’t know I’m going inside the building. And shut the elevator system down if need be.”

“You are fucking insane, do you know that?”

Eames ignores him. “Can you do it?”

“Of course I can!” Charlie sounds a bit insulted. “Do you have any way to get me inside?”

“Where do you need to be?”

“Anywhere that has computer connected to the intranet system. They’re all connected one way or another.”

“You think the basement security office will do?” Eames suggests.

“What about the fucking security guards? They’re called security office because there’s a bunch of security officers there. Do you want to get me behind the bloody bars?” Charlie replies scathingly.

“Yusuf should be able to help you with that.” Eames looks at his watch, it’s nearing noon and he should start his preparation to infiltrate Arthur’s office building as soon as possible. “Wear something to cover your face and have Yusuf give you some of his sleeping sprays.”

“I swear, Eames, if I get caught doing this, I will-”

Eames doesn’t let Charlie to finish. “Meet me at my gallery,” he says and hangs up. He knows Charlie will still come to the gallery regardless of how pissed off he is with Eames. They’re good friends after all.

Heaving up the suitcase and the bag with the climbing gears, Eames puts it into the car—again, borrowed from Yusuf—and starts the drive back to the gallery. He looks at the house for a couple of seconds before the car leaves the driveway. His grip on the steering wheel tightens and then he looks away.

There’s no need to think twice, he tells himself and then he pulls out his phone again, dialling Yusuf this time.

“Prepare your heat decoys and sleeping sprays, Yusuf,” he says as soon as Yusuf picks up.

“Do I want to know?” Yusuf asks.

“We have a new job,” Eames says, and he drives away without looking back.

\--

Max has taken so many things from the house, Arthur notes, as he sees the investigation team haul one of the paintings they took from Eames’ study to the meeting room—anything frm artillery, assorted documents that don’t have anything to do with their line of work at all, and other things Arthur hasn’t checked yet. He let the team turn the house upside down—supervised by Ariadne—while he sat in the sitting room and just looked at the ugly curtains still hanging undisturbed.

Arthur enters the meeting room and when he sees the large HD monitor on the far end of the room is showing a footage so familiar (and private), he marches towards Max, Ariadne, and a couple of others—Jamie and Tony from the intel division—standing in front of the monitor. He’s fuming and trying so hard not to grab one of the Glocks on the table and throw it to any of their heads. When he reaches them, he clears his throat and shoots them a glare.

“What is this?”

Max is holding a DVD case and he shows it to Arthur. “Your honeymoon video?” The monitor is showing footage of Arthur sprawled on his stomach, bed sheets tangled around his bare body, asleep and dead to the world. There’s Eames’ voice narrating that the gorgeous man lying there is his beloved Arthur. And then the angle is changed. By the looks of it, Eames put the handycam on the bedside table. Eames then appears on the screen, leaning over Arthur and kissing the back of his neck, waking him up. Arthur in the video makes some pleasured grunts, smiling widely.

The current Arthur wills the heat creeping up his neck and cheeks down. Eames liked to record him during the first years of their marriage. Most of the videos likely will just show more of Arthur, rather than Eames. And Arthur just can’t let anyone see the videos. Even for the sake of research, he just can’t let anyone to see him this open, this vulnerable, this real and… weak.

He grabs the case from Max’s hand. “I know what _this_ is,” he hisses and takes the remote control from Ariadne. “My question is what are you doing with it?”

“Research, Arthur,” Max says calmly. “Background research on _the target_.”

Arthur grits his teeth, turns off the monitor and hears disappointed grunts coming from Jamie and Tony. He puts on his ‘don’t you fuck with me, you imbeciles’ face and they scamper off, leaving Arthur with Ariadne and Max in the meeting room. Arthur ejects the disc and throws it away into the nearby rubbish bin, along with its case.

“Do you want to talk about this, Arthur?” Ariadne asks. She reaches out to touch Arthur’s elbow.

He flinches away and snaps, “No!” He ignores Ariadne’s frown and turns to Max again. “Target acquisition is our main priority. He is a code-blue liability to our company and we need to know his status. Start looking through everything, Max, phone records, credit cards, everything. Don’t waste your time watching those videos.”

“Bu-”

“Audio scan civilian frequencies, search for his banking database and…”

“For what? _William Eames_?” Max cuts him off. “Is that even his real name?”

Arthur doesn’t answer.

“Do what I told you to do, Max,” Arthur says, gritting his teeth. He can feel the pain that’s been gnawing at the back of his head since last night increasing in intensity. When Max still stays rooted to his spot, Arthur takes a deep breath and gives him a stern look. “Just… find him. Please.”

Max sighs and shakes his head slightly. “All right, all right. You’re the boss here,” he grumbles.

As he watches Max walk away, to hopefully do what he has been ordered to, Arthur takes one of the swivel chairs and sags down, massaging his temple. He knows Ariadne is still hovering beside him and he knows she will start pestering him again.

He is about to order her to find something to do when suddenly Max rushes into the meeting room again.

“He’s here!”

“Who?” Ariadne asks. Arthur stands up immediately. He ignores Ariadne’s call and looks at the pile of Eames’ possessions Max has taken from the house, he grabs a gun—a Browning Buckmark Camper—and starts running out of the meeting room.

“He was seen in one of the elevators for just a few seconds,” Max informs him. “But then he disappeared. We still can’t find where he is.”

There is a beeping sound from the security surveillance area. All the screens in that area are blinking red signals and most of the analysts there have already started to check all security cameras installed in the building, some are running scans with the heat-sensor.

Arthur’s eyes scan each and every screen, wondering why Eames would be so daring as to come out to him like this. He doesn’t even bother to inconspicuous. Arthur wonders if it’s just Eames’ style of doing things, always flashy and loud.

Suddenly he feels his phone vibrate in his pants pocket. Arthur scoffs, looking at the unknown caller ID, knowing exactly who the caller is and flips the phone open. “I thought I told you not to bother me at the office, William,” he says. He looks around to the screens again, Ariadne has already taken a chair and started checking the heat sensor and scans the building’s 3-D grid layout.

“First and last warning, darling,” Eames warns, “You need to disappear. And fast.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Arthur retorts. “You should’ve known the moment you breached our security, you’d be a dead man.”

Ariadne’s screen is showing a massive thermal image surrounding the top area of their floor. It’s difficult to pinpoint Eames’ exact location, if he’s really up there.

“We’ll see who the dead man in this story of ours is, Arthur,” Eames says. The sound from the phone is disturbed by a static. A gush of wind, Arthur guesses. Then he hears glass shattering from the direction of the meeting room, a thud, and something rolls out of the door.

Max curses loudly and Ariadne gasps at the same moment. Arthur realises the thing that’s rolling out of the meeting room is actually a tiny grenade. Almost everyone around the vicinity of the meeting room scatters.

“Bang! You’re dead,” Eames says, and the line is cut.

“Shit!” Arthur curses and he turns to his team. “ _Evac plan D now_!”

Just a second after Arthur said that, the grenade explodes. There’s no fire, only a blinding flash of light and some green odourless smoke. It was just a decoy grenade, harmless. But no one wants to take any chances. The alarm rings.

Everyone in the office is on their feet and they’ve already started tapping on their respective keyboards, commencing the all-data destruction plan. Max is shouting and ordering everyone to go to the private exit door once they finish. There are two emergency elevators just two flights of stairs down that go directly down to the basement.

Arthur snaps his phone shut and slips it back into his pocket. He flicks off the gun’s safety and in a quick moment of derangement, Arthur wants to laugh. It was Eames’ gun. How ironic would it be if Eames were to be shot dead by his own gun?

“Arthur! Come on!” Ariadne calls out. She’s waiting by the exit, Max still ushering their people out. Arthur now runs around the almost deserted office, making sure everyone has done their job and all files are deleted or destroyed.

“Arthur!” Ariadne shouts again when the last person takes the flight down the exit.

“Let’s go, Ariadne!” Max drags her by the elbow and shuts the door behind them, leaving Arthur in the empty office.

Arthur loosens his tie and takes a spot facing directly to the meeting room door that’s still ajar. He takes a few steps back to the exit, he points the gun towards meeting room, waiting. The green smoke has cleared off bit by bit and he can see a dark silhouette walking out of the room. He raises his gun, aims it towards the figure.

The first thing that Arthur sees is the barrel of a rifle, the very same Heckler & Koch sniper rifle that he used during the Fischer job—Arthur remembers leaving the suitcase behind the kitchen back door but he’s quite sure Max’s team dealt with it—and he really, _really_ has to laugh over the irony. Here he is with Eames’ gun, and there Eames is with his sniper rifle. Both of them couldn’t get any more tragically dramatic than this.

“I wouldn’t laugh if I were you, sweetheart,” Eames says, as soon as he steps out of the smoke, a safety harness is still wrapped around his hips—accompanied with a roll of rope—and he’s wearing a protective vest.

Arthur notices a couple of smoke grenades strapped to the front of Eames’ vest. His hands hold the rifle steady and he’s training his sights on Arthur, his finger is on the trigger—unlike Arthur who still has his finger off the trigger—and he doesn’t seem to be having any second thoughts of pulling the trigger if the needs arise.

“Ah, I never knew you could climb. I thought you said you’re afraid of heights?” Arthur says, smirking. He’s supposed to be leaving the building, he’s supposed to have gone with Ariadne and Max. But he can’t let this chance to face Eames pass just like that. Even though the chance of him winning this round with only one gun—the gun that he’s not used to—is slim, Arthur still doesn’t want to let Eames have the last laugh.

“Darling, you knew nothing about me,” Eames says. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Arthur chuckles lightly, cocking his head to the side and moves his finger on the trigger, and says, “Likewise, baby.”

And he starts shooting. He doesn’t really pay attention to whether or not any of the bullets hit the target. He only pays attention to the bullets that have started to come right after him as soon as he started to shoot. Arthur crouches down behind a cubicle, and crawls towards the exit door. He stands up and starts shooting over his shoulder as he opens the door and ducks behind it. He sees Eames running after him, the barrel of the rifle trained right at Arthur’s face, just before he slams the door close. The door is equipped with an electronic lock that can only be activated with a password and Arthur’s fingerprint. He quickly taps the password down and presses his thumb over the fingerprint sensor, locking the door.

Arthur runs down the stairs, taking a leap over the ledge and lands on the second flight. He can hear the telltale banging from above and smirks as he imagines how frustrated Eames must look like at the moment. There’s a series of gunshots—probably Eames trying to shoot the door down—that’s followed by more banging.

Arthur jumps over another ledge and he lands right in front of the two elevators running down to the basement floor. One is on its way down, presumably bringing Ariadne and Max down. The other one is still on its way back up. Arthur checks the magazine of the gun as he waits for the elevator, if his math is not wrong, he only has a couple or so bullets left.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to calm himself. He can feel his blood rushing, the rush of adrenaline making his whole body tingle with excitement. It is strange, in all honesty, because having your spouse trying to kill you—and you trying to kill him—isn’t supposed to be fun. At all.

There is a small ‘ting!’ sound, signalling the elevator finally arriving, and Arthur opens his eyes. Suddenly there’s a deafening explosion from the floor above. Arthur curses and pushes the button repeatedly, willing the steel door to open immediately. He’s forgotten the many things they’ve left in the meeting room table. And he’s sure amongst the guns and rifles and other firearms Max and his team have taken, there are some explosives as well.

The elevator door opens and just as Arthur goes to take a step in, a bullet passes his right side, missing his right cheek by a couple of inches and it hits the elevator wall. He turns on his spot and sees Eames, still aiming the rifle steadily, looming over the stairs.

“You only have two bullets left,” Eames begins, lowering his rifle a little bit. “You can make this real easy for yourself, Arthur.”

“What?” Arthur scoffs, holding up his gun and aiming it at Eames again. “You expect me to roll over and play dead?”

“You should be used to it after four years of marriage.”

“ _Five_ ,” he hisses, clicking the safety off, “and I’m not leaving.”

Arthur takes two steps back into the elevator and hits the ‘close’ button. Eames holds up his rifle, but Arthur is faster. He pulls the trigger twice, emptying the magazine, though he doesn’t really know why he aims for Eames’ chest instead of his head. Arthur knows he could easily shoot the bullet in between Eames’ eyes and be done with it. It would be very easy and quick, yet Arthur still feels hesitant. Being hesitant has no place in their line of work, Arthur knows that clearly. It’s either kill or be killed.

As the elevator door slowly closes, Arthur sees Eames stagger backwards a little bit from the shock of the bullets hitting his protected chest. He can see Eames’ expression; there’s rage, mixed with hurt and maybe Arthur’s just imagining things because he thinks he sees admiration in those pair of blue grey eyes (and if Arthur could convince himself, he’s sure Eames is grinning at him). Arthur doesn’t have a chance to make sure because the elevator door finally closes, and it’s all he can think about for the brief fifteen seconds before the elevator suddenly stops moving, he has wondered and comes to the conclusion that the part about admiration was just conjured up by his subconscious.

\--

Groaning and hissing in pain, Eames tries to stand up. The dull pain in his chest, caused by the bullets Arthur has shot at him, is making it a little bit difficult for him to breathe. He lets go of the rifles to assess the damage on his protective vest. One bullet on the stomach area and the other on the upper right chest area. The one on the chest is just an inch away from hitting the small hand grenade he keeps in the chest pocket.

Eames heaves himself up and looks at the elevator that Arthur’s taken. The small digital screen above it signals the elevator is already down on the twenty third floor. Clicking his tongue, he takes out his phone and speed dials Charlie.

Charlie picks up after the first ring. “What do I have to do next?” he says, without a ‘hello’.

“Shut the elevator system down,” Eames says, eyes still locked on the digital number on the screen.

“Done!” Charlie says right away. True to Charlie’s words, the digital numbers stop at 20.

“Great,” Eames says. “I owe you, mate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie grunts. “Just don’t drag me into any of your problems again. You owe me a bloody huge favour for this, Eames.”

“Don’t worry. There won’t be a next time. Remember to restart the system in ten minutes. After that, get as far away from this building as you can.”

“I know what to do, you twat!”

Eames doesn’t have the chance to slip the phone back to his pocket because right after Charlie hangs up, there’s another incoming call. He smirks as he sees Arthur’s number on the screen. He re-attaches the wireless earphone and then slowly saunters to the elevator, the door still closed tight. He grips the phone with one hand, the other hand taking the dagger strapped on his right thigh. After a few moments of letting it vibrate, Eames presses the answer button, slips the phone to one of his chest pockets and starts prying the elevator door open.

“Whatever your plan is, it’s not going to work,” Arthur says.

“Are you sure about that, darling?” Eames chuckles. The steel door is opening just a slither. “I’m not the one stuck in an elevator. You constantly underestimate your dear hubby, Arthur.”

“Oh? Do I?”

Eames can practically see Arthur’s raised eyebrow and the eye roll from his voice. He slips his hand into the gap and then uses all his strength to pry the steel door open. The elevator shaft is almost dark, with only a small lamp attached on the wall every couple of sections. He looks down and sees the elevator box—the one Arthur is currently in—hanging just eight floors away. He looks at the two pairs of cables holding the box steady. There’s no way he can use the cables to climb down. He looks at the climbing equipment he has on and then he turns around to the stairs, squinting at the banister. He really hopes it will be strong enough to hold his weight.

“What exactly are you doing right now, Eames?” Arthur asks.

“Ah, back to last name, I see,” Eames says. He quickly hooks one end of a carabiner around the banister to secure the rope around the safety harness, making sure the belay works perfectly. He tugs the rope a couple of times, once he’s sure it won’t slip off he throws the other end into the shaft as he stands on the edge. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll be down in a few moments,” he adds before hanging up.

Deciding it will be too much of a hassle to bring the rifle down with him, Eames chooses to leave it. It’s not really his anyway and Arthur probably doesn’t have any firearms with him. If they’re going to have a fight in a tight enclosed space, Eames thinks it’s safer for both parties if no firearms are involved—him particularly, because at this point it’s no use to pretend both of them will get out alive. It’s either him or Arthur.

He checks his watch, there’s still eight minutes until Charlie restart the elevator system.

“Here goes nothing.” And he starts the climb down the elevator shaft.

It takes him less than four minutes to reach the elevator box and when he lands, panting and sweating a little, the box rocks to the side. He stands still for a few second until it stops moving and then he starts pulling off the safety harness. He uses the dagger again to pry open the top hatch and sees it’s pitch black inside the elevator. The light fixtures around the adjacent walls of the shaft streaming into the box only help him to see the floor and he can’t make out any shapes. It doesn’t mean Arthur is not inside waiting for him of course.

After taking a deep breath, Eames sits on the edge of the hatch and as soon as he jumps down, a pair of arms grabs him from behind and out him in a headlock . He grasps the hand, preventing it from choking him fully. He feels the tight lines of Arthur’s body pressed against his back and when Arthur slams him to the wall, Eames can’t help but smirking at their situation.

“There you are, Arthur,” he says, breathing heavily, still trying to loosen Arthur’s headlock. “Isn’t this a new experience?”

“What kind of new experience?” Arthur hisses.

“It’s dark, we’re alone, you're pressing me up to the wall instead of the other way round and you don’t actually have a headache.”

Arthur tightens his hold on Eames’ neck and pushes him to the wall again. Eames feels Arthur’s elbow digging into his back and it’s getting a little bit difficult to breathe. It’s not really difficult to try and break free of the hold, Eames is sure of that. He has the upper hand of having bigger body mass. But he never really thought there was so much strength hidden beneath Arthur’s layers of clothes. Then again, Eames never really thought a lot of things about Arthur.

“First and last warning,” Arthur grunts into his ear.

“Be original and come up with your own line, darling,” he says, taunting, wanting to see what Arthur will do next.

“You don’t have many options here,” Arthur says. “I can snap your neck any second.”

It is really getting more and more uncomfortable with the grenades pressed in between his bruised chest and the cold wall, Arthur’s elbow still digging deep into his back, tightening his hold around Eames neck, preventing more air circulation.

Eames coughs a couple of times before saying, “All right, all right! I give up.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur is taken aback. And surprisingly, the hold around Eames’ neck loosens a little bit. Eames uses the momentary lapse to lift one of his legs and hooks it to one of Arthur’s leg. As Arthur loses his balance, Eames twists in his hold and quickly pushes Arthur down.

The elevator rocks a little bit from the momentum of the two of them falling down to the floor.

As Arthur gasps for air, Eames quickly presses his left arm on to Arthur’s neck, blocking his breathing, and then pins his left hand with his other hand over his head. Arthur’s right hand is trying to pry Eames’ hand away weakly. Eames moves his legs to straddles Arthur’s thighs.

They’re breathing heavily, their face only a couple of inches away and their noses almost touching. Eames can feel the Arthur’s hot breath on his face.

“The table has been turned,” he says, grinning smugly at Arthur, whose face is getting redder. “Don’t you think this is more like us, Arthur?”

Arthur’s response is to headbutt Eames. Groaning in pain, Eames clutches his head with both hands and Arthur rolls them over, changing their position once again. Arthur’s cold hands are wrapped around Eames’ neck, choking him.

That is the moment the light in the elevator flickers back to life. The elevator starts moving down. Charlie must have restarted the system again.

Arthur looks up, distracted with the light suddenly illuminating the elevator. Eames quickly sends a sharp elbow up to Arthur’s chin, and then using both his knees to pushes him off, sending him back to the wall. The elevator rocks slightly again.

Eames pulls himself up, pressing his back to one side of the wall, facing Arthur who’s rubbing his chin in the opposite corner.

“That hurt?” He cocks his head and sends Arthur a grin. Being the receiving end of Arthur’s deathly glare for the last couple of years, Eames is unfazed with the intensity of said glare Arthur is giving him right now. It’s just like facing a really stubborn kid who thinks he can have everything he wants just by giving his parents a tantrum.

Arthur moves to loosen his tie and Eames has to, really has to stop himself from wolf-whistling when he starts to undo the two top buttons of his black shirt. His hair, usually slicked back perfectly, is all rumpled from their brief struggles on the floor. It reminds Eames of how Arthur usually looks like after sex.

“I have to say you look gorgeous in black, darling,” he says, raking his eyes up and down Arthur’s body.

“I’m practising,” Arthur says, sliding his tie off and makes a move to tuck it into his trousers pocket, “for mourning.” Suddenly he throws the white tie to Eames’ face, distracting him.

A kick lands on his stomach, Eames doubles up, but he recovers quickly. He grabs Arthur’s leg immediately and is ready to give Arthur his own kick when suddenly Arthur jumps up, spins in the middle of the air and sends a reverse roundhouse kick with his other leg to the right side of Eames’ head. If his head didn’t feel like it’ll split in two, his ear not ringing and he’s not actually lurching in pain, Eames would have given Arthur an impressed look as he lands on both his feet. A clap, even. Because Arthur’s little stunt of doing such acrobatic manoeuvres in a tight and enclosed space like an elevator definitely deserves it.

And it turns him on a little bit. A tiny little bit. Especially with how Arthur’s looking at him at the moment. The heated glare, clenched jaw and the scowl on Arthur’s face surprisingly make a hot combination.

Arthur’s eyes then flick up to the small screen above the control panel. The elevator has reached the eighth floor. Soon enough it will reach the basement where no doubt there will be a horde of Arthur’s people waiting for him. Eames doesn’t have much time. He ignores the throbbing pain on one side of his head, his stomach and chest. He bends down and swipes one leg over Arthur’s, then catches his flailing body.

In a quick, swift move, Eames pins Arthur down on the floor again, their hands tangled in between their bodies as they both try to throw a punch or two to the other’s face. An elbow to Eames’ cheek, a brief choke hold to Arthur’s neck and the struggles continue for almost half a minute until there’s small ‘ting!’ sound, and Eames looks up to the elevator’s control panel from where he’s pinning both Arthur’s hands above his head. His upper body is pressed fully on top of Arthur’s. Arthur’s one leg is bent between their stomachs as he tries to dislodge Eames. His other leg, somehow, is wrapped around the back of Eames’ thigh. If only they’re in different situation, Eames would’ve told Arthur how much he likes their current position.

When the elevator door starts to slide open, Arthur tightens his leg lock and then pushes Eames off with his other leg. Eames releases Arthur’s wrists, he slumps onto the wall. He brings himself up quickly but Arthur has already shoves one foot up to his neck, pins him to the wall, and then he bends down to grab both of Eames’ legs, dragging him down to the floor. Arthur twists Eames’ right leg around his body, locking both his arms, and pressing his lower body down to pin the left, immobilising Eames completely.

“I’ve always known how flexible your body is,” Eames starts, panting and out of breath. “But I never knew you could be this flexible.”

“You are underestimating me,” Arthur says, he sends another sharp elbow jab to Eames’ upper chest before untangling himself from Eames and then grabs his protective vest. “See if you can escape this.” He proceeds to pull the pins of all the grenades strapped on Eames’ vest and then dashes out of the elevator door, which is currently sliding close again.

Eames looks down at the activated grenades and silently curses his luck today.  


* * *

  


hur doesn’t often feel maudlin. But when he reflects on his recent days, he feels that it’s justified to be so. So there he is, sitting alone in his favourite restaurant, listening to the string quartet play sentimental songs and feeling like a jilted lover from one of those Miles and Boons novels.

In truth, he’s not so much a jilted lover as a… what? He doubts there’s a reserved adjective in the English language to describe an occasion where a person finds out that his husband has been lying to him for years and that said husband is actually an assassin from the opposing organization and that they have been trying to kill each other ever since and yet he still can’t stop loving said lying, cunning, trigger-happy husband of his.

And it is possible that he has succeeded on killing said husband of his. That is, if the way the building shook from the explosion in the elevator could be trusted. Arthur doesn’t know. He didn’t even look back to make sure and just told Max—who was waiting with Ariadne in a black mini van for him—to drive away.

Thinking about it again makes his head spin.

Sipping his wine, Arthur’s gaze sweeps across the restaurant he’s in. Eames was the one to introduce him with that restaurant when he took them there for their second anniversary. He remembers how happy they were that time. He remembers how Eames had teased him non stop during the entire course of their meals. He remembers the fantastic sex they had afterward.

How things have changed now.

But, well, he thinks with a bitter smile, now he can’t complain about how his marriage with Eames lacked some sparks. They have had more than enough _literal_ sparks lately. The last ‘sparks’ might even have put Eames to his grave. Perhaps. He doesn’t know. He hopes… no, he can’t hope. He can’t even think.

Arthur puts his glass of wine back to the table and, during the process, catches a whiff of very familiar cologne.

“You wouldn’t be getting all mushy about killing me now, would you?”

He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t give even the slightest reaction when Eames sits in front of him, very much alive and, if the smirk on his face is any indication, up to something.

Arthur berates himself for feeling a tiny bit relieved at the fact that apparently he has failed in his attempt to kill Eames.

“Good evening, darling,” Eames greets him in a way that always makes Arthur’s eyebrow twitch. There’s just something in the way he calls him ‘darling’. “Why the sombre mood?”

Arthur fixes him a hard stare. “I’m in mourning for my deceased husband.”

“Pity,” Eames said. “I’m in the mood for celebrating _life_ in general, myself.”

Arthur sighs. “What do you want, _William_?” He almost asks ‘how did you escape?’, but he stops himself. It’s no use asking how a trained assassin escapes a life and death situation, so he just entertains himself by watching that subtle flinch Eames has when he called him with his Christian name.

“You have to make up your mind on what name you want to use to call me, Arthur. We have to talk,” Eames says.

“About what?”

“Us.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“So there’s nothing between us now?”

“Just a table.”

A slight pause. They are looking at each other heatedly.

“I want a divorce.” Eames says it so easily, without any hesitation and he even gives Arthur a smirk.

But Arthur is not bothered by his words. He expected Eames to be dead, he can’t possibly be shocked over being proposed for a divorce.

“Just tell me when I have to book a plane to London and have the receipts of the plane ticket and lawyer fee sent to your family’s doorstep,” he counters easily.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Eames is giving him a slight squint.

“Really? _Try_ me.” Arthur sips his wine without breaking the eye contact. “Oh and I want keep the Westchester County house. You can keep the London suite.”

Perhaps if there were the typical two point five kids involved, they’d be fighting for custody too. But the only typical thing their marriage has— _had_ , he amends himself, is the white picket fence house in Westchester County. Arthur loves the house.

The conversation stops for a few moments when a waiter comes to ask what Eames wants to drink. It only starts again when Eames has his flute filled with the most expensive house champagne, and Arthur has his wine glass re-filled.

“What do you think happened to our marriage?” Arthur starts. He notices how Eames left hand fingers are now bared of any accessories. No wedding band in sight. It shouldn’t be a surprise, really, since he has also stopped wearing his.

Eames takes a sip of his bubbling champagne, smacking his lips and then gives Arthur a smirk. “I have a theory, newly developed.”

“I’m breathless to hear it.”

“I think you killed us.”

“Provocative. Do you want to hear my theory?”

“By all means.”

“It was just a huge mistake.”

Arthur almost, almost regrets his own words when he sees Eames’ eyes filled with something like, regret? Pain? He doesn’t know. All Arthur knows is that he never thought their marriage was a mistake. Their marriage just happened at a wrong time, wrong place, and perhaps wrong lifetime.

“Dance with me,” Eames says simply after a few moments pass with them only staring at each other. The string quartet has started on another number and there are already two or three couples dancing on the dance floor.

Eames stands up and offers his hand to Arthur, the picture of a perfect gentleman. And Arthur is reminded of _William Eames_ , the man he fell hopelessly in love with. “Shall we?”

Arthur takes the offered hand readily, “You don’t dance,” he says as Eames leads him to the dance floor.

“It was just a cover, sweetheart.”

“I hope your horrible fashion sense was just your cover too.”

He feels the warmth of Eames’ hand holding his, the gentle pressure of his palm against the small of his back. And Eames is smiling at him, smiling tenderly at him with enough hints of sadness and passion and anger and…

…and everything. There’s everything in that smile. Everything that has made Arthur dare to say ‘I do’ and sign the registry in front of numerous people _and mean it_.

“If…” Eames starts, staring right into Arthur’s eyes. “We are to start shooting each other here…”

The grasp Eames has on his hand tightens. Yet strangely, Arthur doesn’t feel alarmed.

“Don’t you think it will end our problem nicely?” Eames continues. “Seeing that you apparently want me dead and I find myself thinking less and less concerned of your well being?”

Arthur pretends to give it some thought.

“I wouldn’t go for that route,” he says. “It would most likely results in me getting banned from this place for killing you and I love it here.”

Eames chuckles and pulls Arthur’s body flush against him. Arthur knows, though, that the hand that is steadily advancing to his ass is not only meant to tease him but also to check for any hidden weapon that he might hide under his clothes.

He lets him, for now.

“You’re so confident,” Eames whispers to his ears as they sway to the music. “That your aim won’t miss.”

“I’m the sharpshooter, remember?” Arthur whispers back. He feels Eames hand linger on his ass, even though he must have finished checking him out for weapons.

He can see Eames’ gaze sharpen. The hand moves from his ass to his waist, under his jacket and over his waistcoat, when he spins him on that dancing floor.

“Oh, yes,” Eames says. “You’re a very good one. My body has received enough proof to vouch for it.”

“I try my best,” Arthur says. His hand slides down Eames’ back, to check for hidden weapons. Two can play the game, and it’s only polite to return the gesture.

“Satisfied?” Eames smirks at him when his search results in nothing.

Arthur sweeps his hand across Eames’ chest, drawing a stiletto dagger from his belt. Showing him the dagger, Eames merely shrugs with a ‘you-caught-me’ smile. Eames tells him as he pockets the dagger, “Not for years.”

Eames chuckles and Arthur feels his hand passing his crotch, lingering far too long and far too intimate.

“You’ve got a very lethal weapon here,” Eames says, fingertips dancing teasingly along the seam of Arthur’s trousers. “But I dare to think that this one I can handle.”

Arthur puts his palm flat against Eames’ chest, feels how his heart’s beating under his hand. Instinctively, he presses closer to Eames’ body, feeling how the pressure tightens on his crotch, on his belly, in his heart.

“All me, baby,” he whispers.

Eames gives him a brief squeeze before he plucks the mini revolver Arthur hides under his belt. Showing him the gun, Eames clucks his tongue. Arthur only snorts but his snorts dies down when he watches Eames bringing that gun to his lips and kissing it tenderly.

“All you,” Eames said. He pockets the gun and then uses his now free hand to caress Arthur’s cheek. “All mine… darling?”

Arthur tries not to shudder when Eames’ thumb slides over his jaw, to his lips. He composes himself, tries to unclog his throat without swallowing, even though he really, really wants to take that thumb into his mouth, and says instead, “Your right expired the moment you shot at me last night.”

“It was just an accident. And you’re being a hypocrite, Arthur. You shot at me too, _fifteen times_.” Eames chuckles, as he moves them around, hand resting on the small of Arthur’s back again.

Arthur raises an eyebrow when the grip on his left hand is tightened and Eames walks them around a pillar, passing other couples who are looking at them curiously. When they are behind the pillar, Eames slams him to it. Arthur bites his tongue to prevent any sound from falling out of his mouth. He only groans in pain a bit, nothing more than that. Eames drags his half-limp body and moves them to the dance floor again.

“Do you think this story has a happy ending?” Eames asks, when Arthur’s eyes are focused again.

Arthur wants to laugh. He wants to tell Eames there was never ‘this story’ in their relationship. There’s only ‘this lie’. “Happy endings are just for stories that haven’t finished yet,” he mocks. “Tell me, was it hard lying to me all those years?”

“Why do you care, if I was just a cover?” Eames leans away, and looking at him as if Arthur has just said the curtain he bought last week was to his liking.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“Who says you were just a cover?”

Arthur realises belatedly that Eames’ deathly grip on his hand has loosened considerably. “Wasn’t I?” he asks.

“Well, wasn’t _I_?” Eames asks back.

Arthur’s honest answer would be ‘no, you were never just a cover’. But he couldn’t say that. _Wouldn’t_. Deep down inside, he knows Eames has the same answer. And they have stopped moving. They are just standing there on the dance floor, facing each other, gazing at each other, so very close and still touching each other.

It will be so very easy to just close that gap between them, to press his lips against Eames, to taste him and steal his breath away from him…

When he’s thinking about that, Eames takes his hand. He still maintains their eye contact when he raises their joined hands to his lips. He keeps staring into Arthur’s eyes when he blows hot breath over Arthur’s knuckles.

He’s smiling when he kisses the back of Arthur’s palm.  


  
“Arthur,” he whispers almost reverently. “Darling, you’ll be the death of me.”

Arthur grasps the back of Eames’ neck and yanks their faces closer. The kiss that follows is rough and so very full of lust yet there’s tenderness in it. The paradox makes Arthur’s head spin. But perhaps it’s the kiss. Perhaps it’s both. Perhaps it’s another thing altogether.

Perhaps it’s simply Eames. Eames, who teases his lips and tongues, whose kisses always make his knees weak, who is cradling his head gently as he plunders his mouth, stealing his breath and soul. Indeed, perhaps it’s Eames, whose fingertips presses gently against his neck, whose body feels warm and solid against him.

It’s with utmost reluctance that they part a few minutes later. They are standing right in the middle of the dance floor, foreheads resting on each other, sharing their breaths, and Arthur doesn’t want the kiss to stop. He wants to keep kissing Eames, to run his hand across his body, to feel the effect of his touch and kisses on his husband’s body, to forsake any rational thought and let his desire rule him.

But it’s not a matter of ‘want’. It’s a matter of ‘need’. He needs—is required—to deal with this ‘inconvenience’ he has with Eames. And, well, he admits that he still has his basic instinct as an assassin with a mission. That should explain why, during their kiss, he somehow managed to slip a tiny piece of explosive to Eames’ suit pocket. But…

How could he even think of blowing up the guy who has just kissed him like he means more than life, the universe, and everything?

“I have to go,” he says abruptly. Then, before Eames has a chance to respond, he already steps out of his embrace and walks out of the dance floor. He makes a point of never looking back, never slowing down his step, even though he knows that Eames’ gaze is following him.

He can only breathe normally again when he’s inside the men’s room. And even then, he’s only allowed a meagre few seconds because shortly after he steps in to one of the stalls, his eyes catch the familiar sight of a blinking bomb.

“Oh, fuck,” he says to no one in particular, staring down at the offending object.

Arthur is aware of the concept of karma. And, remembering how he has slipped his own choice of explosive into Eames’ pocket, perhaps now is the perfect example of ‘karma is one nasty bitch’. But that doesn’t mean he can’t get irked by the fact that he’s about to be blown up to pieces.

He won’t forgive Eames, though, if his little stunt really results in him being banned from the establishment for eternity. He _really_ loves eating in that restaurant.


	7. In Sickness and In Health

Walking out of the restaurant after settling Arthur’s bill, Eames watches in fascination as the explosion rocks the building. It’s merely a little bomb—not enough to cause major catastrophe but enough to make a point. For this case, the point in question would be ‘my husband was trying to kill me so I give him this explosion as my little revenge to him’.

Sure, that makes him look petty, but all is fair in love and war. And what he has with Arthur can be counted as both.

Leaning against one of the lamp posts, he watches the crowd come pouring out of the restaurant. Searching the faces, he couldn’t find the one he’s looking for. Frowning, he senses the very first beginning of worry seeping into his heart.

It can’t be that Arthur failed to escape the explosion… no, of course it can’t be. And if he is… well, it’s his mission to ‘deal’ with Arthur. He shouldn’t feel worried.

Right. Right, of course. And, obviously, the reason why his feet bring him closer to the explosion scene instead of going away from it is not because he’s worried, but merely to make sure that…

A movement on the corner of his eyes grabs his attention. Turning his head sharply, he meets the gaze of Arthur fleeing the crime scene. He casts away the relief he feels in his heart as something unimportant, and he justifies the fact that he’s smiling because of the thrill of the game ahead that he and Arthur will apparently still be playing.

Chasing after him to the parking lot, Eames only manages to catch sound of tires screeching and Arthur’s car driving away. He is debating whether he should chase after him or not when he suddenly hears some ominous tick-ticking sound. His eyes widens when he realises that the sound is coming from his left suit pocket. Sparing no time for thinking, he quickly sheds his suit jacket and throws it as far way from him as possible.

It explodes even before it reaches the ground.

Eames thanks every holy being that exists for giving him a pair of quick hands that have already saved him twice from being burnt to crisp today. But he does have one thing to complain about.

“Oh, sweet,” he says, staring at the smoking remains of his beloved suit. It was Ozwald Boateng, for heaven’s sake! He knows that Arthur often threatened to burn his ‘hideous shirt’, but this is the first time he carried out his plan.

And that, of course, means war.

Less than ten minutes after that, he’s already behind the steering wheel of some car (stolen, since his car is still under the river, and Yusuf’s the one who drove him to the restaurant for his rendezvous with Arthur) and trying to dial Arthur’s number with another phone Yusuf gave him. He’s not ashamed to admit that he still memorise Arthur’s number.

Arthur answers after the second ring. “Arthur Eames speaking.”

Eames allows a smug grin at how Arthur introduces himself. “And here I thought you didn’t want to use that name again after you tried to kill me for the second time today.”

“Oh, come on,” Arthur’s voice holds a hint of mock repentance. “It’s just a little bomb.”

Eames grits his teeth as he races his car faster in that busy road, narrowly missing a car when he changes lane.

“I want you to know,” he tells Arthur, remembering the sight of his burnt down suit jacket. “That I’m going home and I’m going to _burn_ everything I bought for you.”

“And I’ll burn all of your hideous shirts,” Arthur threatens.

“Not before I reach home first,” Eames tells him firmly.

There’s a chuckle and then Arthur’s voice, saying, “I’ll race you there, baby.”

The sound of dial tone greets him after that, letting him know that Arthur has hung up on him. Eames stares at the phone in his hand and he laughs. He laughs even though he also wants to cry and to get angry and to fuck Arthur to next century.

It’s Arthur, only his Arthur, who can make him feel like this, has been so ever since the first time they met each other on that fateful day five years ago.

He hits redial as he swerves out of the road and drives through some poor guy’s backyard. The shortcut will save him time.

Arthur greets him with, “You there yet?”

Eames chooses not to acknowledge that question and instead asks him, “Tell me, the first time we met, what was your first thought?”

“ _You_ tell me.”

“I thought…” he starts. He tries to think of that moment, to remember the multitude of feeling he felt when he first met Arthur, talked with him, got to know him, got to love him. He tries to remember the euphoria he experienced the moment Arthur told him ‘yes’ after he proposed to him. “You looked like the sun rising behind the hill at the back of my parents’ manor. I used to wake up early just to get a glimpse of it. I… don’t know how to say it.”

Arthur is silent for a moment before he asks, softly, “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because at the end you’re starting to think about the beginning,” he says. And isn’t that the truth? They’re already at the end—Eames can’t really allude himself in believing that they could save their marriage anymore. There are too many lies, too many secrets, which have been going on between them. At times like that, he can’t help but remember how it all started and how, despite everything that has happened, he still loves Arthur.

“So, how about it, Arthur?” he asks casually, trying to keep his emotions out of his voice.

“I thought…” Arthur proceeds to speak, stops, and then continues. “I thought you’re the most beautiful mark I’ve ever seen.”

Eames knows he should have expected something like that, but it still leaves a trace of bitterness in him when he hears Arthur say it for real. “So, it’s all business?”

“All business,” Arthur agrees.

“That’s all I need to know,” Eames says before he hangs up the phone.

Yes, he thinks as he crosses back to the main road, that’s all he needs to know.

It takes Eames only seven minutes to reach the suburban complex, when it usually takes fifteen. When he reaches the corner of the road to their home, he sees Arthur’s car from the other end of the road. As he speeds up, Arthur speeds up too. His car is faster though, and just when he’s about to turn into the front lawn, Arthur’s car accelerates and it crashes to his, sending it crashing through the white picket fence. Eames shoots an angry glare to Arthur.

“Not the bloody fence, goddamnit!” he shouts. The picket fence was Eames’ own handiwork and now most of it is broken to pieces.

Arthur even has the gall to give him a smug smirk before he pulls back and continues down their driveway leaving Eames’ car— _stolen car_ —on the roadside. Eames growls and jumps out of the car, mourning over his fence for a quick second. He leaps over the fence and runs through the front lawn up to the front porch. He doesn’t bother with the front door and instead, proceeds to spy on the front windows, to check if Arthur has gotten inside.

He almost falls over when his feet stumbles one of the big rocks lining around the post of gloxinia. And then, in a sheer moment of childish rage Eames deliberately steps on Arthur’s gloxinia, destroying the already wilting flowers, sending it to its demise. After stomping on more than half of the flowers, Eames continues his pursue for Arthur.

Eames gives a little satisfied nod at the pitiful state of the flowers, wincing a little bit as he remembers what gloxinia means in floral language. But it doesn’t matter what the flower means, because it’s not like it has anything to do with the sad state of his and Arthur’s marriage. He convinces himself, as he tip toes to the side of the house, that this marriage has already met its end. There’s no use hanging by the single weak thread of hope.

With a renewed determination, Eames runs along the driveway path that leads to the garage—Arthur’s car parked haphazardly in front of the closed garage door—ducking under every window while still trying to make out any movements from inside the house. He can’t see anything through the curtains and it’s not exactly bright inside the house as some of the lights are off. He curses and quickly hides behind Arthur’s car when he hears a small click from the back door. He peers up and sees the door opening slightly.

There’s Arthur without his suit jacket, looking fierce and dangerous. He’s armed with a couple of firearms strapped around his body. He’s holding two suppressed Glocks in his hands, while scouting the backyard. He doesn’t seem to notice Eames hiding behind his car. After a few moments, Arthur goes inside, locking the door behind him.

Eames releases his breath, not realising he’s been holding it as he saw Arthur just now. He has to admit, looking at Arthur armed to the teeth like that gives him mixed feelings. Arthur looking like he could kill twenty people in less fifteen seconds without breaking a sweat—he probably can—with all the firearms he has somehow doesn’t make him cower in fear. The more rational part of his brain is seething because he doesn’t have anything to counter Arthur’s fully-armed state. The more irrational part of his brain, that seems to be connected straight to his nether region, eggs him to jump Arthur here and now, even at the risk of having his brain blown up to bits.

He shakes his head and stomps on the irrelevant train of thought. He crawls down and heads for the garage. The door, fortunately, is unlocked. He gets in and rummages through the mess under the working table. There’s a medium sized metal box under the piles of ropes and cables. He grabs it and pops the false bottom of box and some metal pieces fall out onto the table. He quickly assembles the pieces into a revolver—a [Colt XSE](http://www.imfdb.org/index.php/Image:M%26MSColtXSEusedinfilm.jpg)—and loads an eight rounds magazine. He smashes a flashlight that’s hanging on the wall open. A suppressor rolls out of it and he threads it on the Colt.

Taking some careful steps out of the garage, Eames heads for the furthest window from the back door. He breaks a section of the window with his elbow, and waits for any sound from inside. When he hears nothing, he slips his hand in and flicks the lock open. He hops over the ledge, carefully avoids the shattered glass and gets in. He’s in the small room beside the kitchen that functions as the laundry room. Tucking the Colt under his arm, he rolls up his sleeves and tip toes out of the room. He reaches the kitchen and stares longingly at the oven. There are many weapons there, yet he can’t risk alarming Arthur where his position is because the oven is so bloody noisy with the beeps.

He holds the Colt steady, searching for any movements as he treads carefully, back to the wall, and looks at the dining room across the kitchen. Still no sign of Arthur. As he ducks behind the wall, he notices that the front door is locked firmly. The stairs is right in front of the foyer, he has a blind side, and he will not have any way of knowing if Arthur was there, waiting to ambush him.

Eames’ eyes fall on some of the framed pictures hanging on the wall. He grits his teeth, grabs one—a picture of him and Arthur kissing Phillipa’s cheeks on her second birthday—and holding it over the wall, using it as a mirror to check the stairs. He squints at the blurred reflection on the glass and tries to not focus on the picture. There’s a swift movement and cursing his damn luck, Eames drops the picture frame and ducks.

\--

Arthur smirks, cocks up his shotgun and starts shooting the wall. He shoots twice and then stops, shotgun still pointed to the big hole created just now on the wall. He can see the barest hint of Eames’ dirty blond hair.

“You still alive, baby?” Arthur is never the one for terms of endearment. It has always been Eames with his ‘darling’, or ‘love’, or ‘babe’. Back in the days, Arthur had thought it endearing, and sometimes… once in a blue moon, he’d use it too (somewhere along the line of ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’). These days, these few hours to be exact, Arthur thinks about the terms as some kind of insult, and has used it at least four times (he keeps count). He just wants to mock Eames and show him he doesn’t have any qualms over disposing Eames from the face of the earth, and also not affected by their separation.

There’s no response from where he shot the wall. Arthur is sure the bullets didn’t hit Eames though, so he steps down the stairs slowly, the shotgun still aimed at the wall. The shotgun is not his only weapon of course. There are two suppressed Glocks tucked safely behind his back and there’s also one sub-machine gun strapped over his shoulder. He can switch to any weapon at any time.

Suddenly there’s a movement behind the wall. Not caring whatever the source of the sound, Arthur starts firing his shotgun again, and the hole on the wall gets bigger. He unslings the shotgun over his shoulder and switch to the H&K sub-machine gun as he strides over to the kitchen. He starts firing when he sees Eames ducking behind the kitchen island. The bullets hitting the wooden surface of the kitchen island and some of the glasses on it shatter. Eames appears to fire twice at Arthur’s direction but the bullets only hit the picture frames on the wall.

When Arthur fires again, Eames whips open the refrigerator door and it deflects the bullets—Arthur curses the subzero steel door. Arthur pushes past the door and Eames runs around the kitchen island towards the laundry room while still firing his gun over his shoulder.

“Your aim is as bad as your fashion sense, William!” Arthur shouts as he ducks down to avoid Eames’ bullet. “And that’s saying something!”

Three seconds after the last bullet hits the window over the sink, Arthur stands up and starts his search for Eames again. The laundry room is empty, and there’s no sign of Eames in the small hallway under the stairs. Arthur switches to shotgun again, reloads the bullets and carefully steps out of the room through the other exit that’s leading to the hallway to Eames’ study and the sitting room on the front.

The door to Eames’ study is still locked so Arthur doesn’t bother to check it. With his back to the door, he steadies his gun and carefully points it to the hallway leading to the side door and the sitting room’s other entry. Just when the muzzle passes the wall, there’s a swift gunshot and Arthur loses his hold on the shotgun. The shotgun clatters to the foyer. Eames fires another two bullets, and they hit the wall in front of Arthur.

Arthur hears Eames curses under his breath and the sound of a heavy thing drops to the carpeted floor. He must have run out of ammo, Arthur thinks. Arthur doesn’t waste any time to unslings the submachine gun from over his shoulder, takes a deep breath and then runs straight pass the hallway while firing the submachine gun, making holes in the cabinets along the hallway and destroying some of the frames hanging on the wall. He sees Eames ducks into the sitting room through the other entry. He takes cover behind the sitting room wall, he waits for any movement from his left, nothing—only the sound of frames still falling off the wall, and then he turns to the right, gun at the ready.

He aims the gun to the sitting room and pulls the trigger. And then a golf club swings out, Eames holding it, and it hits the gun out of Arthur’s hands. Arthur feels the pain travelling from his wrist to his elbow, but quick to recover and reach back for his Glock. Eames is quicker, as he sends a kick to Arthur’s side. Arthur falls on his stomach and he feels one of the guns removed from his back. He quickly rolls onto his back, reaching for the other Glock, and aims it to Eames who’s standing over him near the base of the staircase. Eames, even though he has the upper hand on having the gun first, is not aiming it to Arthur.

“Look up, darling,” he says, pointing the gun up onto the ceiling.

Arthur looks up, sees the crystal chandelier hanging on the ceiling, and then his eyes flick to the gun pointed at it. The crystal chandelier was a housewarming gift from Mal.

“Oh no, you won’t,” he hisses, flicking the safety off.

“Too bad. I am,” Eames says shortly, he even dares to smile smugly before he fires all the bullets at the chandelier.

Arthur rolls over towards the dining room to avoid the falling chandelier—and his back hits the chair. The crystals break into pieces as it hit the wooden floor. “Fuck,” Arthur curses under his breath, leaping up to his feet and holding himself steady on the back of one of the chairs surrounding the dining table. He gives Eames a seething glare. “That’s from Mal, asshole!”

“So?”

Arthur’s eyes narrow, then they flick over Eames’ shoulder to the trinkets displayed on top of the cabinet separating the foyer from the sitting room. He focuses on the carriage clock. Eames looks back over his shoulder and seems to have noticed what has caught Arthur’s attention. Arthur looks at Eames again, and he gives him an actual wide smile.

“No, no, no. Arthur, that one has been in my family for generations!”

“I know,” Arthur says, he points his gun to it. “It also came from your father.” He fires four times, blowing the clock to smithereens. Cogs and springs, and pieces of glass rain down.

Arthur gives Eames a challenging smirk, daring him to do something. He knows there’s no more bullets left on the gun Eames has, and he himself only has five more bullets. Arthur knows he should’ve used a ten rounds magazine instead of eight. Suddenly Eames moves his hand to grip the suppressor and he actually throws the gun to Arthur’s direction. The gun doesn’t hit him, it passes over his head, and Arthur—in a swift moment of foolishness—turns over to see where it hits. It hits the small sized crystal chandelier hanging above the dining table, and Eames sends a sharp kick to Arthur’s stomach while his attention is elsewhere.

Arthur is thrown back onto the dining table, the gun slips out of his hand. He doubles up, clutching his stomach. Eames doesn’t give Arthur any spare time to recover because he’s already grabbing Arthur’s waistcoat, heaves him up and throws him over to the front window. The glass shatters from the impact and Arthur falls over to the floor, taking the white curtain with him.

“Come on, darling,” Eames says, looming over Arthur, “Come to Daddy.”

Arthur heaves himself up. He’s breathing hard and his palms are slightly bleeding from being scratched by the pieces of broken glass, yet he can’t really feel any pain there since mostly the pain is mostly centred on his stomach and his back. He notices the wine bottle under the table and then he looks at the white curtain on his hands. He takes the wine bottle and grips the curtain. Then he stands up on his feet, spins, smash the wine bottle to Eames’ head—the bottle, unfortunately, doesn’t break, but it sure hurts like hell—slips the curtain over Eames’ neck, knees his stomach and as he doubles up, Arthur headbutts him, kicking him again for a good measure, sending Eames crashing into the tall cabinet by the wall.

Arthur looks down at Eames who’s groaning and clutching his head. He smirks.

“Who’s your daddy now?”

\--

The hit to his head is what mostly makes Eames takes a bit more time to stand up. He leaps on his feet, chases Arthur who’s running towards the broken chandelier, no doubt wanting to take the shotgun that’s still lying somewhere under it. Eames quickly lunges down to the floor, not caring for the broken pieces of crystals, as he sees Arthur reaching down for the shotgun. He swipes his leg around, catching Arthur and making him loses his balance. Eames grabs the shotgun at the same time Arthur rolls on his back towards the cabinet, slips his hand under and pulls out a Beretta.

They both leap up to their feet and spin to face each other. Eames with the shotgun pointed at Arthur. Arthur with the Beretta pointed at Eames. The muzzles of their firearms pressed to each other. Arthur flicks the safety off and Eames tightens his finger on the trigger in reflex. They’re both breathing hard and Eames feels his head spins, his vision starting to get hazy.

Dust waft around them, broken crystals scattered under their shoes, and it’s almost completely dark with the only light coming from the wall lamp hanging on the circular staircase wall and the desk lamps in the sitting room. They’re standing right in the middle of the foyer, and somehow, Eames feels it’s just too fucking melodramatic, them settling their scores in the centre of their home, in the centre of their universe.

He stomps on that thought and looks at Arthur’s eyes sharply, just for something to focus on. And what he sees there makes him rethink about the whole thing.

The wild flare in Arthur’s eyes is accompanied by some more raw emotions. Suspicion, anger, and confusion. There’s also hesitation in Arthur’s eyes and Eames doesn’t want to think that Arthur is hesitating to pull the trigger on him, because he shouldn’t be. He understands completely that there’s no such thing as hesitation in their line of work, and Eames thinks Arthur must have known about it too.

If you hesitate, you die. Except, neither of them is dead yet. Because they’re both hesitating.

Eames loosens his grip on the pump, he takes a deep breath and fights the urge to close his eyes to think. He remembers how desperate Arthur had been when they kissed in the restaurant, how painful it was for Eames to stop the kiss because he had wanted more. He didn’t want to stop kissing Arthur then, and Eames doesn’t even want to imagine not being able to kiss Arthur ever again if he— _if they_ both pull the triggers.

Suddenly there’s a crack from Eames’ right. Arthur’s eyes flick to the direction of the sound, and so Eames does as well. The picture frames on the wall that leads to laundry room are falling off. There are some huge holes from when Arthur had shot at it using his shotgun earlier. Eames feels like he wants to laugh over the broken pieces of the frames. Their life together is staring back at them, as if accusing him, accusing both of them for ruining the whole lifetime they’ve shared, and Eames knows, he knows he can never ever pull the trigger.

His gaze turns back to Arthur again, their eyes locked. There’s still a hesitation in Arthur’s eyes, so Eames does what’s possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done as an assassin, but it’s also the only thing he could think to do for Arthur; he lowers the barrel, he lets his grip on the pump go, and finally he drops the shotgun to the floor. It falls with a loud clatter.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks, his voice is cracking slightly, and he winces.

“I can’t do it,” Eames answers, giving Arthur a rueful smile. “You want it? Take it.”

Arthur’s expression changes drastically. His jaw tightens, he blinks fast, his eyebrows knits in pure confusion, and Eames just wants to hold that face and kiss the confusion away.

“Don’t do this,” Arthur says, steadying his grip on the Beretta with both hands. “Pick it up.”

Eames shakes his head, takes one step closer. “You win, Arthur.” Another step. “Shoot me and be done with it.” He’s standing right in front of Arthur’s Beretta, the muzzle pointed directly to his face, but he stays unfazed.

“Pick it up, goddamnit!” Arthur’s raising his voice now. But it’s still cracked and Eames knows Arthur can’t pull the trigger too.

And when Arthur’s resolve crumble, as the gun lowers an inch, Eames lunges, slapping the gun away. Arthur meets him in the middle, grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer. Eames cups Arthur’s jaw and when their lips collide he sighs, feeling relieved beyond words because this is what he wants, what he hopes, what he will do everything for to have forever. And the best part is Arthur wants it too.

The kiss is not like the one in the restaurant at all. While it was the very first time they kissed quite passionately after such a long time, it still can’t compare with this one. All the tension, the thrill, the fear, everything is poured into the kiss.

They kiss frantically, their teeth collide with a loud clink, and their tongues are lapping at each other in their mouths, their hands trying to touch everything they can reach and Eames thinks, he think that he has forgotten how it would feel to have Arthur’s body pressed fully against him. He has forgotten how Arthur’s taste is. He has forgotten how he could never have enough of Arthur all around him, wrapping him up, and filling him. But now he has the chance to remember it again, and he will never let the chance go.

They tumble into the sitting room, Eames pushes Arthur up to the cabinet after he sweeps the mess of the carriage clock pieces down. Arthur’s hands are roaming all over his back, tugging his shirt up and when they slip under his shirt, touching and scratching his back, Eames groans into Arthur’s mouth but they keep kissing. Eames’ fingers are digging into Arthur’s hair, messing the slicked back hair, tugging his head back and moves to his jaw, leaving a line of kisses down to his throat and then moves up to nip at Arthur’s earlobe.

“I’ve missed you so, so, so much,” Eames murmurs to Arthur’s ear. He lets go of Arthur’s hair and starts unbuttoning his waistcoat. Arthur has moved to loosen Eames’ tie. He’s wrapping his legs around Eames’ waist, dragging him closer, rubbing their crotch together. It doesn’t take too long for Eames’ cock to get hard, and he can feel Arthur’s cock swell in response.

Arthur pulls Eames away from his throat and starts attacking his mouth again, plunging his tongue into his mouth, and Eames is all happy to suck it in, savouring it. And then Arthur push himself up from the cabinet, tightening his legs around Eames’ waist, and wrapping his arms around his neck to hold himself up. Eames stops his activity to remove the offending waistcoat from Arthur’s body, and moves to hold Arthur up, his hands cupping Arthur’s arse.

Eames staggers backwards, his back hitting the wall and picture frames falling off from the collision. Arthur breaks the kiss and giggles—he actually giggles!—into Eames’ neck. Eames can’t help his own grin to bloom on his face and he lets out a loud groan when Arthur moves up and down, grinding their hard-on against each other. There’re too many layers of clothes separating them, and Eames just wants to rip them all off, not caring he’s wearing some expensive suit, not caring how Arthur’s going to bitch over it.

So he does. He reluctantly removes his hands from Arthur’s arse—Arthur can hold himself up—and slips them in between their pressed bodies. Arthur perks up from his neck when Eames forcefully tugs the waistcoat off, buttons flying everywhere. For one moment, everything stops moving. Eames stares at Arthur. Arthur stares back. And Eames can’t help but keep looking down to Arthur’s red swollen lips. He looks back up again, and he grins when Arthur scowls.

“You’re lucky I love you too much,” Arthur says.

Eames laughs and laughs and they kiss again, and again and again, until they’re out of breath. But they don’t stop. Even as they both try to divest more clothes off, even as they break more picture frames—Arthur slams Eames to the wall over and over again, even as Eames’ hand slips under Arthur’s waistband and palming his erection making Arthur moans loudly, their lips never separate for more than two seconds.

They fall onto the sofa, limbs tangled, shirts hanging off their shoulders and panting into each other’s mouth. Eames settles himself on top of Arthur, then he nips the junction of Arthur’s neck and shoulder, marking him. Arthur’s fingers swiftly tug the button on Eames’ trousers loose, he unzips it, pushes his boxer down and finally, freeing Eames’ cock from its confinement.

Eames sighs into Arthur’s mouth, both his hands are shaking as he tries to hold himself up, and it’s a difficult feat to do. So difficult because Arthur is jerking his cock mercilessly, sending shivers all over his body and he’s longing for this sensation for such a long time. He settles one hand on Arthur’s hip, slips back, palming his arse again, and pushes himself down to get more friction. Arthur doesn’t disappoint. He thumbs at the slit, smearing pre-come over Eames’ cock.

A litany of curses comes out of Arthur’s mouth when Eames tugs his cock free, his hand tangled with Arthur’s and they’re jerking their cocks together. He nuzzles and laves and bites Arthur’s throat, tasting the sweat, breathing in the smell he’s missed so much.

The ‘oh’s and ‘God’s and ‘yeah’s are filling up the silence around the sitting room. Eames keeps thrusting, their hands are slick from the pre-come dripping from their cocks, and he feels the heat coiling under his abdomen builds up. Arthur moans, and grunts impatiently, jerking his hand faster. Eames feels his balls clenching tight, his thrust becomes more erratic, and he speeds up too, wanting to see, to feel Arthur breaks free.

Arthur comes first—his whole body trembling and shaking. He bites his lip to hold back the scream, and then his one hand grips at Eames’ hair tightly, tugging him down, and he shouts into his mouth. After a couple more jerks, Eames follows, coming with a loud groan, spilling himself into both of their hands. He continued to tug and pull until the orgasm fades, then he falls on top of Arthur.

There’s only the sound of their heavy breathing. Eames buries his face into Arthur’s neck, not caring the sticky mess on their stomachs. Then Arthur pushes him off, and he falls down to the floor. He looks up to see Arthur turns on his side, one hand supporting his head and the other, the injured one that’s still covered with their come, is draped over his stomach. His exposed skin is glistening with sweat and he’s just the most beautiful thing Eames has ever laid his eyes on.

And Eames thinks dropping the shotgun is the right thing to do after all.

\--

Arthur bites his lip, trying hard to not let the smile from blooming completely on his face. But he seems to be failing because he can feel his face stretches painfully and he knows he must’ve looked like a teenager who’s just gotten off for the first time with the stupid dimples appearing. He can’t help it though. Especially with Eames grinning stupidly like that.

“What was that?” he asks, looking up to the ceiling. He feels a little bit dazed and still coming down from the post-coital high.

“You mean out of ten?” Eames replies cheekily, taking his hand and weaves their fingers together.

Arthur looks down, their eyes meet, and this time, he lets the smile blooms completely.

“Eight,” they both says.

The next thing that happens is Eames tugs him down, and they start to kiss again, slower this time. It’s like they’re savouring their time, to enjoy every kiss, every touch, and getting re-acquainted with each other’s body again. Arthur hisses when his over-sensitised cock makes contact with Eames’. His trousers and boxer are hung low in the middle of his thighs and the friction of the material with his skin is burning him up as they rut against each other again.

“Pants,” he grunts into Eames’ mouth, “off. Pants off now.”

Instead of his pants, Eames goes for Arthur’s shirt instead. He slips it off Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur arches his back when Eames pinches his nipple, his teeth latching on his shoulder, biting and then soothing the bite mark with his tongue. Arthur’s whole body still feels too sensitive for any stimulation but he doesn’t care. It will take some time before they’re ready for round two, it doesn’t mean Arthur will let the refractory period passes without doing anything.

He wriggles out of his shirt and throws it over his back, not caring where it lands. He straddles Eames’ thighs and grabs his shirt to pull him up. Crushing his lips into Eames’ red-swollen one, Arthur plunders his mouth with his tongue again. He traces the ridges of the roof of Eames’ mouth as Eames’ hand starts to tug at his hair again. Eames’ other hand is tracing circles on Arthur’s back and Arthur can feel the shivers spreading from his back to his limbs and gathering into a coiling heat in his stomach.

Suddenly Arthur feels over-balanced and almost topples back if only he didn’t already have his arms wrapped around Eames’ neck. Eames straightens both of them up, and Arthur doesn’t know how he manages to stand on both his feet when they still feel like jelly.

“Upsy daisy,” Eames says, in between planting soft kisses to Arthur’s face. “Bedroom. Now.”

Arthur groans at the thought of having to extricate himself from Eames just to get upstairs, but then Eames drags down his own pants and boxers, steps out of his loafers and peels his socks off, and then there he is, fully naked for Arthur to see. Now, it’s not that Arthur has never seen Eames naked, they’re married for fuck’s sake. It’s just that… it’s just that it has been so fucking long since he could look at Eames’ bare body all the while feeling this intense heat that seems to fill every inch of his body.

“Enjoying the view, darling?” Eames says.

“Can’t we just stay here?” Arthur asks, and he definitely _doesn’t_ whine. “There’s the couch.” Arthur knows he sounds stupid. No one can blame him. His brain is still trying to catch up with what’s happening. He’s allowed to say nonsensical thing, and Arthur thinks there’s nothing nonsensical about wanting to shag on the couch where it’s just _there_ instead of making the trip upstairs to the bedroom.

Eames smiles at him adoringly. Before, Arthur would give Eames a scowl for his trouble. Now, Arthur tries hard not to swoon. They’ve just made up for less than half an hour and Arthur already feels like a fucking lovesick teenager again.

“I’d rather fuck you on our bed,” Eames purrs, “and see if it’s still sturdy enough.”

Arthur smashes their lips together again in reply.

They make their way to the staircase through the foyer, touching and kissing. Arthur kicks his shoes off—they land on the mess of broken crystals on the wooden floor—and all but jumps up to Eames’ arms after he divests him all of his clothing, leaving a trail of expensive tailored pants on the lower stairs, a pair of socks and boxers on the landing.

By the time they reach the door to their room, Arthur’s already half-hard and he can feel Eames’ cock poking under his thigh. Eames lets him down and runs his hands down Arthur’s chest to his torso, one hand pinching his nipples and the other travels down to grab at his cock. Arthur throws his head back and moans loudly. He almost slips down to the floor, he thinks his feet will not be able to support his body again if Eames keeps on doing what he’s doing to Arthur’s cock. But Arthur doesn’t want him to stop.

Arthur reaches back to open the door, his other hand combing through Eames’ hair as Eames licks and sucks at his throat. They tumble inside, and Arthur almost lets out a whine when Eames lets his cock go, pushing him to the direction of the bed. Arthur breathes a sigh of content when his back makes contact with the soft cotton sheets. He feels the bed dips and then Eames is hovering above him, kneeling between his legs.

Pulling his legs up to accommodate Eames, Arthur starts to trace Eames’ face with his hand. Touching and feeling every contour of Eames’ face. He traces those lips, red and plump and bruised heavily from their intense kiss, and when those sinuous lips stretched into a wide smile, Arthur feels his own mimics it too.

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames sighs, and he leans over, nuzzling Arthur’s temple. Arthur tilts his head to the side as Eames plants light kisses from his temple, to his jaw, down to his neck and up to the back of his ear where Arthur’s more sensitive. “I love you so, so, so much.”

As much as he wants to savour the raw emotional—and honest—moment, Arthur thinks it’s about time they start again. So he flips them over, pushes Eames to his back, and straddles his hip. He kisses his way down from Eames’ neck, to his chest, and then stops to latch his teeth on Eames’ nipple. Eames moans loudly and bucks his hips up, his cock slides with Arthur’s and it’s too difficult to not start rutting himself down.

“Oh God, Arthur… Arthur… I want to fuck you so hard,” Eames groans incoherently.

Once he’s satisfied with Eames’ nipples, Arthur trails wet open mouthed kiss along Eames’ stomach, moving down, down, and he crawls back, settling himself between Eames legs. Just when his mouth is just a few inches to Eames’ strained cock, Arthur stops and looks up. Eames looks utterly wrecked, he’s panting hard, there’s pink blush spreading from his cheeks to his ears and down to his neck, and he looks like he’s about to shoot someone when he realises Arthur’s mouth is still not doing what he wants it to do.

Arthur breathes hot air into the head of Eames’ cock.

“Jesus, Arthur, please,” Eames gasps, throwing his head back and Arthur has to grip at his hips hard to stop him from thrusting up.

Without warning, Arthur complies. He ducks his head down and licks the head of Eames’ cock. Eames lets out what Arthur most definitely thinks as a whine. Arthur slides his lips around Eames’ cock, swallowing around him. Then Arthur feels Eames’ hands grabbing a handful of his hair and tugging him down as he thrusts his hips up into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur eases his throat to take more of Eames in and he hums, sending vibration into Eames’ cock. Bobbing his head up and down, Arthur keeps on sucking and licking at the beads of pre-come dripping out. He makes it as wet as possible, and before long, Eames’ cock is already slick with his own pre-come and Arthur’s saliva.

After a few moments Arthur lets go of Eames’ cock with an obscene pop. Before Eames can whine at the loss, Arthur’s already licking his way down from the underside of his cock, sucking at his balls for a few moments, and then his tongue trails down to lap at Eames’ puckered hole.

“Oh my fucking God!” Eames shouts quite loudly. He thrashes wildly, and Arthur has to dodge Eames’ flailing legs. He keeps licking at Eames’ asshole, circling the tight heat with a twirl of his tongue and then he plunges in. Arthur goes as deep as he can and enjoying the way Eames pants heavily, muttering a line of curses.

“Stop! Stop!” Eames says suddenly as he tugs at Arthur’s hair. And when Arthur stops thrusting his tongue into his hole and looks up, he flops down with a sigh. “As much as I want to come into your mouth, I want to come in your arse, Arthur,” he says again, sounding a little bit too coherent for Arthur’s taste.

Eames words almost make Arthur comes here and there, against the soft bedsheets. He claws at the sheets, trying to keep control and ease down the heat coiling under his abdomen. Slowly, he crawls up and moves to straddle Eames again. There’s a bottle of lube in one of the dresser’s drawers, but Arthur really, really doesn’t want to move himself off of Eames to go and get it. So he settles for pushing his two fingers into Eames’ mouth.

Luckily, Eames understands immediately and starts sucking his fingers, lapping them with his tongue and covering it with his spit. After Arthur deems it to be wet enough, he pulls his fingers out of Eames’ mouth and then slowly pushes one into himself. He hisses as he stretches himself, pushing another finger in and starts scissoring. Arthur’s thighs shake. He winces, feeling the burn travels up to his spine. He only realises he’s closing his eyes when he hears Eames’ heavy breath.

...only to have them opened again when he realizes one simple yet crucial fact that he should have realised before they come to this stage. They may be married but they also haven’t had sex for God knows how long.

“How about...” he tries to say but finds that he can’t quite voice out his thought.

Eames blinks a couple of times, trying to focus. “How about what, Arthur?”

Arthur pulls out his fingers. “Shouldn’t we...”

“We should fuck now, if that was what you’re trying to say,” Eames says.

“No! I mean, yes of course we should!” Then he sighs, he leans down and looks into Eames’ eyes. “Shouldn’t we... um... use condom?”

Eames frowns for a quick second, then he smiles, taking Arthur’s face with his hands and pulls him down for a soft kiss. “Baby, it’s never been anyone but you,” he murmurs against Arthur’s lips, “...unless you have some explanation on your own?”

“I’m too busy killing people and dealing with you every day. I don’t have time to fuck around, asshole,” Arthur replies.

Eames chuckles lightly. “Then do continue, darling.”

Arthur meets Eames’ eyes as he takes his cock—which is still slick with his spit and pre-come, he lines it up to his hole, and then he sinks down with a sigh. It burns, but it also feels great. Really great that Arthur almost forgets to breath. He stays still for a few moments, waiting for his body to loosen up and letting Eames in all the way. He squeezes his thighs against Eames sides and bites his lower lip when Eames’ breath hitch and he thrusts up.

They rock slowly together at first, Arthur trying to get used to being filled again. Eames runs his hands all over Arthur’s body, spreading his ass cheeks. He shudders when he feels the head of Eames’ cock hits his prostate. Arthur pushes himself down, harder on Eames’ cock, and they both groan when he rolls his hips. He leans down and nips Eames’ lips, feels rough calloused hands holding his hips tight, and they find their rhythm.

Arthur smiles into Eames’ mouth, plants both his hands on the headboard. He pushes himself up, arching his ass so high Eames’ cock almost slips out and then he sinks down again. He whines when Eames’ cock hits his prostate as he pushes up and down.

The next moment, Eames flips them both over. The sound of skin slapping against skin intermingled with the sound of their heavy breathing, filling up the entire room. It’s hot and stuffy and their bodies are covered in sweat. Arthur licks the drops of the salty water that’s trailing down Eames’ cheek as his thrusts become even more frantic.

They’re close and Arthur hisses, moans, and murmurs incoherent words into Eames’ ear. He wraps his arms around Eames’ neck, locks his legs around his waist, and bucking up to meet his thrust. Eames is fucking him so hard Arthur can hear the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, and he has to laugh because of that. Eames almost stops moving when he hears it, but Arthur scratches his nails on to his back and orders him, “Move! I didn’t tell you to sto-”

He stops talking when Eames lifts one of his legs up and changes the angle. Arthur lets out a particularly loud moan when the change of angle causes Eames’ cock to hit his prostate over and over again.

Eames kisses his way into Arthur’s mouth as he comes with a quick snap of his hips and Arthur holds him in place with his legs, bracing him between his thighs.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Eames grunts, and he wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock and starts pumping as Arthur feels himself filled with Eames’ come. “Come for me, Arthur. Come for me.”

Arthur might have screamed Eames’ name loud when he comes with a quick jerk of Eames’ hand. Arthur doesn’t know, he’s too busy experiencing the best orgasm he’s ever had to even understand what words are coming out of his mouth.

After Eames jerks the last drop of come from Arthur’s cock he falls rather gracelessly against him in a sweaty, bedraggled heap. And he’s heavy. It’s a comfortable weight on Arthur’s body though. A comfortable and welcome weight that he has missed dearly.

Of course, he’s not going to tell Eames that.

\--

Eventually, Eames starts to breathe normally again. His whole body feels like its going to melt, or maybe it already has, seeing as he can’t move any limbs. Even opening his eyes seems to be such a tiring thing to do. He’s still lying on top of Arthur and it’s getting a little bit too uncomfortable, their sweat slicked skin plastered together like that, but Eames still wants to feel Arthur’s frantic heartbeat against his own, wants to feel it when their hearts calm down and start beating together in synchrony.

But then Arthur shoves him off with a grunt and he flops onto his side. He takes Arthur’s hand and laces their fingers together.

“Okay…” Eames starts, he turns to look at Arthur. “That was a nine. It would’ve been ten, except…” He makes weird gestures with his hand to his temple—there’s an angry red bruise from when Arthur hit his head with the wine bottle. “I think you broke my brain.”

Arthur chuckles, his dimples appeared in full force, his cheeks are still flushed pink and Eames falls in love all over again.

The light chuckle dies out and their eyes locked. And Arthur, in true fashion of someone who has just been fucked out of his brain, growls, “I’ll give you ‘nine’.”

“God. I thought you just did!” Eames protests. He doesn’t stop Arthur from tackling him for round three.

\--

Except… there’s no round three.

They’re both too exhausted to do anything more strenuous than kissing after wasting all their energy during the fight and the two rounds of sex. Now they’re just relaxing on the bed. Arthur is leaning back to the headboard while Eames is draped over his stomach, tracing meaningless pattern on his chest, and plants some dry kisses here and there. Arthur lets him.

The clock on the bedside table says it is half past midnight. It’s serene and really, Arthur can’t remember the last time he experienced such calmness during the night.

Suddenly Eames breaks the moment. “Did you know that after five years average couple makes love only once a week?” he asks.

Arthur thinks he’s heard that before. Once. Courtesy of Miles.

“I think I know,” he answers.

Eames rolls onto his back, resting his head to the mountain of pillows and then drags Arthur by his shoulders so his head is resting on Eames’ chest. “We didn’t do for how long…?”

“Two years,” Arthur says.

“That long?” Eames asks, raising one eyebrow.

“To be specific, around twenty months,” Arthur says softly.

“I think we can catch up. Give or take a couple of years and we’ll be fine.”

Arthur hums in agreement, kisses Eames’ chest once, and then buries his face into the curve of his husband neck to hide his smile. He wants to tell Eames how glad he is that Eames has chosen to drop his gun. He wants to tell Eames that he’s happy. He wants to tell Eames everything about what he’s feeling and thinking at the moment.

But there will be time for that in the morning—and Arthur doesn’t want to sound like a sap—so he lets Eames drawls on and on about inane things, and lets himself taking in the warmth of his husband’s body seeping through his own.

They will be all right. They will be fine. And that’s all he needs to think about.


	8. To Love and To Cherish

When Eames opens his eyes, he finds out that it’s still dark outside. He finds out that their house is still standing—though barely. And he finds out that he's smiling. It brings to his mind a sense of astonishment. He can't really recall the last time he woke up smiling. And when he's at it, he also can't recall the last time he woke up with his limbs entangled with Arthur's under their bed sheets, feeling really happy and content just because he could wake up beside his husband.

His husband, Eames thinks with a fond smile, watching the sight of Arthur's sleeping face pressed against his chest. His fingers absentmindedly play with the strands of Arthur's hair, remembering the time long past when he oftentimes did that. He loves playing with Arthur's hair, caressing it, twirling it between his fingers. He loves watching Arthur waking up when he's still having his fingers amidst his hair. He loves Arthur's mildly curious expression that he always wore whenever he caught him playing with his hair when he's asleep.

How many months have it been since the last time he enjoyed that luxury, he thinks. Then Eames recalls the small talk they had last night before they both fell asleep. It has actually been twenty months. Twenty long months, and it reminds him of one more thing that he misses, making him half expecting, half hoping, that Arthur would open his eyes just like how he used to do in the past, smiling at him before kissing his cheek good morning.

And true to the memories, Arthur's eyes blink open in the middle of Eames' playful exploration of his hair. And he smiles. And before either of them can fully comprehend it, Eames has already offered his cheek and Arthur has already planted his kiss there.

A good morning kiss, Eames thinks. And he dares thinking that their morning would be 'good' indeed.

“Well,” he says, smiling to Arthur before his smile turns into one bemused frown. “This is weird.”

Arthur only gives something that can pass as an amused snort as his reply.

“I mean, this isn’t just me, right?” he asks. “This is really weird, don’t you think so?”

“What?” Arthur asks back. “Is it weird that we nearly destroyed our house in a not-so-really domestic fight involving firearms and explosion? Is it weird that after said fighting we had the best sex in… I don’t know, the last three years of our married life? Is it weird that, considering we’ve been trying to kill each other, we now find ourselves waking up in the same bed?”

“Are you trying to be sarcastic? You are trying to be sarcastic, aren’t you?” he says.

Arthur gives a small yawn as he proceeds to sit up on the bed. With his back now propped against the headboard, he stares down at Eames. “It’s the truth.”

Eames only snorts. He scoots closer to Arthur’s waist, and could not hold back a smile when Arthur does not flinch at his touch. Rather, he casually places his hand on Eames’ shoulder, drawing him nearer, as if protecting him from harm.

“Well, at least now we can’t really complain that our married life is dull,” he says.

“I thought you asked for a divorce,” Arthur says lightly.

“I thought you haven’t signed any divorce paper yet,” Eames retorts. Nuzzling his cheek against Arthur’s hip, he says, “Then again, this might be my second chance about this. Divorce is such an exhausting process.”

“Yes, what with all those paperwork that have to be signed and processed,” Arthur says solemnly.

“And not to mention the deal with the court and lawyers and all,” Eames agrees. “So, I guess, we’re stuck as a couple for now.”

“We did say that we’ll love and cherish each other until death do us part,” Arthur says, looking down at Eames fondly. Then his expression turns serious when he says, “William, we need to talk.”

Eames carefully stares at Arthur. “Is this the kind of ‘talk’ that would end with you getting extremely annoyed at me and banish me to sleep on the sofa for a week?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Half our sitting room is destroyed.”

“Oh, right,” Eames says with a grin. “I should remember that for later—hide in the sitting room when we’re fighting and you’re having your trigger happy time. That way, you won’t make me sleep on the sofa.”

“William, seriously,” Arthur says, chuckling, “we need to talk. We have so many things to talk about, and I’m not only speaking about the amount of money that we have to spend to refurbish our house after we nearly…”

“You’re laughing,” Eames cuts in the middle of Arthur’s sentence, making him stop and stare at him in something that looks like surprise. Eames knows that it’s impolite to cut one’s speech—his father would have a fit should he dare doing that to him. But it’s been so long since the last time he saw Arthur chuckling, laughing, being happy in general while lazing around in bed with him.

It makes him realise how he has come to miss it, the sight, the sound of Arthur laughing, the way his eyes lighten up and his smile break on his face forming a pair of dimples that always make him look years younger than he actually is.

“I am,” Arthur says, agreeing and still smiling.

“You look gorgeous when you laugh,” Eames says.

“Always a flatterer, you,” Arthur says. His hand rubs the back of Eames’ neck, making him sigh in contentment. “I guess that part of you is true, then?”

Eames blinks one of his eyes—which have somehow closed under Arthur’s gentle ministration—open and regards Arthur with an inquiring stare.

“What part?” he asks.

“The part about you being a charming, suave bastard,” Arthur says with a smirk. “That’s what I want to talk about with you now, actually. We’re… we’ve been lying to each other for these many years… how many lies have we told each other? And I just—somehow I want to know the truth now that we finally come to this point.”

Thinking about it, Eames knows it’s the truth. What’s the use of hiding anything now that their identities are already out in the open? What’s the use of keep lying to Arthur? What’s the use of keep lying to himself?

Drawing back from Arthur’s gentle fingers, he rises from his lying position and sits beside Arthur.

“Alright,” he says, smiling. “Now you can tell me that your real name is Rex or something equally butch.”

Arthur frowns at him. “Sorry, but Arthur _is_ my real name. What’s wrong with that name, anyway?”

“That doesn’t really sound like a cool name for an assassin to have,” Eames says.

“Oh, like ‘Willy’ is any better,” Arthur snips back.

“You’d hate it too if you spend half your teenage days being called Willy from Willy Wonka by your mum and sisters,” Eames retorts.

They glare at each other before Eames sighs.

“Truce?” he asks.

“Truce,” Arthur agrees. “So, Arthur is my real name, my real identity, even though I’m not really an architect. My parents are not… well, those guys you met during our wedding ceremony… they’re not my real parents, actually.”

Eames tilts his face a bit. “Not your ‘real’ parents as in they are your guardian?”

“Not my ‘real’ parents as in they’re paid actors,” Arthur says with a little wince.

Eames, for a moment, thinks that he must have misheard things. But Arthur’s expression speaks the truth, and he could feel his eyes widen.

“Paid actors?!” he nearly shouts. “You got some bloody paid actors to pose as your parents for _our wedding_? Our wedding, Arthur… that’s… you are so... impossible!”

“Hey,” Arthur says indignantly. “Undercover assassin agent, here.”

“I knew it. I fucking knew it,” Eames says with a sigh. He rubs his eyes as his mind recalls their wedding. “I’ve seen your ‘dad’ in TV before... he’s in that detergent advert shit. And all along I thought I was delusional after consuming too much wedding champagne.”

Arthur chuckles softly beside him and Eames can see the faint scars on his face. He reaches forward, tracing those long lines marring Arthur’s cheek with his fingers, realising that he’s the one who has put them there.

“So…” he says. “Any chance I can see your real parents? You know, to let them know that I’ve taken their son as my lawfully wedded husband.”

“Er… I don’t think so,” Arthur says, unconsciously leaning to Eames’ touch. “They left me to my grandmother when I was five. I can’t even remember their face…”

Eames’ hand stills, with his fingers still pressed gently against Arthur’s cheek. “Oh.”

“But never mind that… how about you?” Arthur asks. “Is it too much for me to hope that your father is not actually related to you and all that ‘how-can-you-marry-some-American-guy-William-shame-on-you’ nonsense of his was actually only an act?”

Eames actually laughs at that. He retracts his hand and throws his most charming smile to Arthur. “Not a chance, darling. I've brought my real parents even though they almost got a heart attack when I said I wanted to marry you. And that guy you met is really the patriarch of my family, Sir William Eames, Senior...”

“So you are real nobility?” Arthur asks with an arched eyebrow.

“Well, yeah, that part about me is true,” Eames admits. “My family—they are my real family. My lineage and title, very much so. My mansion way across the pond also didn’t come from my imagination alone. But, of course, the part about me being a renowned art curator is merely a cover for my real job.”

“I should have known,” Arthur says. “There’s no way a person with such a terrible taste like you could be an art curator.”

Eames throws a nasty glare to Arthur. “I find myself deeply insulted by that statement. I was just using the most convenient cover.”

“But you said you have a degree in psychology. I think _that_ would have been more convenient. Believable, at least.”

“Nah, that’s just a bluff. I studied Art History.”

Arthur looks so affronted, which makes Eames feels even more insulted.

“Art?”

“Art _History_. It’s reputable.”

“But I still can’t believe you’ve studied art and still managed to have such awful taste. Just look at that curtain you pick in our sitting room,” Arthur says. “It’s so ugly that even bullets won’t come near. I’m personally insulted when I realised that our house is nearly destroyed yet that curtain is still intact as if mocking me.”

“Hey, I picked that curtain for you,” Eames says with mildly affronted tone. “You love flowers. You even joined some gardening club shit and all that. Or are you merely pretending to love flowers? If you are, I have to admit you’re a most exceptional actor with your entire rage-over-gloxinia thing.”

“I do love flowers, and I’m still angry with you over my gloxinia,” Arthur says, glaring at Eames. “But I might have lied a bit about that gardening club…”

“Uh-huh…”

“I’m not really a part of some posh and fancy gardening club, actually,” Arthur admits.

“Then what about that botanical symposium you went to last year?”

“A mission,” Arthur says calmly. “Off to the Alps to hit my target.”

“Ah, that explains the weird souvenirs I got,” Eames says. “You know, it always amazes me why you always seem so reluctant to put up the Christmas tree, considering that you love those bloody gloxinias. I mean, trees and flowers, they’re not so much different.”

“The trees you picked were always horrendous,” Arthur points out.

“They’re environmentally friendly,” Eames replies.

“Just why are you always so anal about picking those ‘environmentally friendly trees’ anyway?” Arthur asks.

“I’m a member of Greenpeace, in case you forgot,” Eames says a bit sullenly.

“No way, you are really part of Greenpeace?”

“I am,” he says. And when Arthur still stares at him sceptically, he huffs. “What? Can’t an assassin care about the fate of this beloved green earth?”

Arthur scoffs at him. “Well, _excuse me_ for being sceptical after all the things you have done to my gloxinia…”

Hearing Arthur’s tone, Eames finds himself suddenly in a defensive mode. Giving Arthur his incredulous stare, he says, “I can’t believe it, our marriage is nearly destroyed, our house _is_ destroyed, we just found out that we're enemies, and you are now queening out about some dying gloxinia?!”

“I love that gloxinia,” Arthur says, returning Eames’ glare with one of his own.

Five years of marriage has taught Eames to read the atmosphere and know when to expect a fight. Thus he knows that their glaring match would soon turn into heated arguments and perhaps even trading insults. Readying himself for some verbal battle, he sits up straighter and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“I see,” he says scathingly. “More than you love me?”

Arthur stares at him haughtily. “Who said I love you?”

“You _married_ me,” Eames says.

“ _You_ slipped something into my tequila that night,” Arthur snaps back.

Eames lets out a mocking chuckle. “Arthur, be reasonable.”

“No. _You_ be reasonable!” Arthur says. “You are the one who’s jealous to some gloxinia... to _my_ gloxinia!”

“I’m your husband, goddamnit.”

“You said you wanted a divorce!”

Eames scoffs. “Yeah, and for some good reasons too…”

Arthur flinches at that. “And what are those, pray tell?”

“Let’s see… lying to me, mistaken identity, being an enemy behind my back, cheating on me…”

“I never cheated on you! I told you I didn’t fuck around!” Arthur cuts him off, looking so enraged that Eames almost feels flattered.

“Excuse me?” Eames says, annoyed that Arthur cut him off in the middle of his speech. “You love your bloody flower garden more than you love me.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and sighs. “Fuck… and it all comes back to that again! William, this is not working at all!”

“Oh and what makes you realise that?” Eames says sarcastically. “The fact that we have to see a marriage counsellor? The fact that we nearly killed each other? The fact that we just destroyed our house?”

“Oh, shut up. You're guilty as much as I am.”

“Why, yes, of course, Arthur, sweetheart, darling, need I remind you that we are in this together? Does the word 'marriage' ring any bell in your pretty little head?” Eames says as he turns his face and stares right into Arthur’s eyes. Under his gaze, Arthur maintains his hardened expression for scantly a few seconds before he softly sighs.

“It rings quite a damn huge bell actually,” Arthur admits. He’s pouting a little bit but there’s also the barest hint of smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Very huge bell, I’d say,” Eames says, cannot help but feeling himself also starting to smile.

“Fuck,” Arthur says, burying his face into his hands. “I’m married to my enemy.”

Smirking, Eames raises his eyebrow. “And that’s news?”

As if he didn’t hear him, Arthur continues, “I’m married to my enemy. I am in love with my enemy! This is so fucked up!”

“Well,” Eames says. He uncrosses his arms and says in a tone that he hopes will not betray the fact that he’s very much tempted to blush like a schoolboy. “The enemy loves you too. Guess I just add the fucked up factor a fraction more.”

The quick blinking of Arthur eyes lets Eames know that he’s not that successful at the whole ‘trying-not-too-look-embarrassed’ business. How could he, a trained assassin, suddenly becomes… this pathetic lovesick guy, he doesn’t know. Perhaps he should have put more thought on Arthur’s argument about something slipped into their tequila that night, he thinks sarcastically. Or perhaps… well, perhaps it’s Arthur…

He hesitantly steals a glance to Arthur’s direction, finding out that he was doing the very same thing, and sighs.

“This is ridiculous,” he voices his thought out loud. Spreading his arms wide, he gives Arthur meaningful look, not caring if his score in the ‘lovesick idiot’ scale has just shot up. “Come here.”

Arthur eyes him with something on his face that might be considered as amusement, or incredulity, or confusion, or perhaps, Eames thought as Arthur launches himself into his embrace, it’s love.

And now he’s also a corny bastard aside from a lovesick idiot. But, he thinks as he embraces Arthur tighter and kisses the top of his head, if that would ensure him to get Arthur into his arms, he has no complaint.

“Look at us,” he says softly, his lips are moving against Arthur’s hair, “Having domestic banter in bed like a pair of old married couple.”

“We’re a couple,” Arthur murmurs against his chest, “and married, but not old.”

Eames knows he has a mischievous smile on his lips when he says, “Sorry, darling, but I saw you plucking out your grey hairs in front of the mirror weeks ago.”

Arthur opens his mouth, as if to argue, but at that point both of them hear an unmistakable sound of footsteps. There is no doubt there. They are both people who rely on their keen senses to survive in their jobs so, when they stare at each other, they come to some silent understanding and unspoken agreement.

Eames reaches to the bedside table for his firearm the same moment Arthur takes his gun from under the bedpost. When Eames sees the sleek Para Ordnance LDA pistol Arthur sports, though, he spares a moment to whistle.

“That’s a beauty,” he remarks with a grin. He remembers the gun Arthur used to shoot him during their car chase the other night. He only saw a glimpse of it, but he was sure it was another Para Ordnance. Eames can’t help but think Arthur must have a thing for shiny big guns.

“Flattery will get you very far,” Arthur says, winking at him.

If the situation is different, Eames would surely tackle him back to the bed and have his way with him. But as they both are aware of the possible threat of trespass, they make do with a brief kiss before Eames readies his gun. They’re waiting expectantly as the sounds of footsteps—several people, Eames thinks, possibly two or more—seem to come closer to their bedroom. Fixing his gaze to the door, Eames can see from the corner of his eyes that Arthur has covered his back and eyed the window speculatively.

He smirks. Having an assassin for a husband turns out not to be so bad, as a matter of fact. They could watch each other’s back and Eames knows they would make one very spectacular team if they join forces. Now that’s a nice thought. Arthur is smart and savvy and sexy and anything else that starts with s. Oh, yes, he thinks as the sound comes nearer, they are the real McCoy in the business and they sure as hell are ready for anything.

Yet it somehow escapes their mind that they are currently as naked as the day they’re born to the world. And thus, the first exclamation being uttered after their bedroom door kicked open by the mysterious trespassers is not a threat for their life.

Rather, it’s something that might come from some pearl clutching ladies.

“Oh my fucking God, my eyes!”

…well, minus the ‘fucking’ of course.

Straightening himself in their bed—not minding that the bed sheets are now pooling around his thighs and thus failing in protecting whatever left of his modesty—Eames jumps from the bed and tackle the guy to the floor. The fact that the guy’s eyes are closed helps him a lot in accomplishing his trait. He manages to pin the guy down, shove his face sharply to the floor and press his gun on his neck.

But it seems the trespasser cares more about Eames’ naked state than his gun.

“Cover your fucking bits, you motherfucker!” he screams. “Fucking faggots.”

Feeling his eyebrow twitching, Eames can’t help but shouting back.

“Oh, sorry, Mister, but this faggot shall do what this faggot wants to do,” he says. “And at the moment, this faggot wants to kill you unless you can give me some goddamn good reason why I shouldn’t do that.”

“Remember your blood pressure, dear,” Arthur says soothingly from his position on the bed. His eyes are still trained to the front windows.

“Listen to what your pretty little wifey said, Mister assassin,” the guy says. Eames can see Arthur’s eyes narrowing so he twists the guy’s arm behind him. The scream of pain that follows sounds like music to his ears.

“Who the fuck sent you?” Eames asks icily. He might be in temper, but he can still think rationally. The guy knows about them being assassins. That means it’s no ordinary burglary. The one who sent him must have known about their identities and it can only mean trouble.

The guy gives him a sneer. “Like I would tell you.”

Eames doesn’t hesitate to grab the guy’s hair and bang his head to the floor. Hard.

“Try not to have blood staining the floor,” Arthur says. “It’s hard to get the stains out of woods.”

“I’ll try, darling,” Eames singsongs happily. “Now, my dear husband doesn’t want blood on our beautiful wooden floor so I suggest you cooperate. Who. The fuck. _Sent_. You?”

In all truth, Eames is content to keep pressing the guys down and perhaps punching him some more, but Arthur’s urgent cry of “William, duck!” turns the ingratiated response that came with his five years of marriage life obeying Arthur’s order whenever he’s using that kind of tone. He’s even tempted to say “Yes, sweetheart” as he ducks his head. He merely whistles as his eyes watch several bullets hole appearing on the closet door, knowing that his head would have exploded if Arthur failed to warn him.

\--

They are in the fucking second floor.

Second floor!

How come anyone could shoot them when they’re in the second floor, Arthur thinks with half incredulity and half annoyance. It’s thanks to his ever so cautious eyes which managed to catch the sight of the little red dot—presumably coming from a laser sighted gun—on Eames’ temple that Eames can be spared the fate of getting his head blown up. But the fact that there’s someone out there pointing their weapon at him can only mean one thing.

“Fuck,” he says as his eyes search for the son of a bitch who has released the shot. He sees a movement from the roof of the house across the road.

“Are we surrounded?” Eames voices out the very same thought that has been plaguing Arthur’s mind.

He turns his face and feels his eyebrow twitches in annoyance at the sight that meets him. Eames apparently has taken care of the first intruder by knocking him unconscious. It’s all fine and dandy, but Arthur still narrows his eyes at the sight of blood dribbling from the guy’s nose onto their beloved wooden floor.

“Didn’t I warn you about blood on the floor?” he says archly.

Eames shrugs, as if nothing’s wrong. “My hand slipped.”

Arthur rakes his fingers through his hair and tries to count backward from ten. There’s no use getting all worked up and frustrated because his dear William managed _yet again_ not to follow his _very rational_ wish. Truly, five years of marriage should have taught him that.

Closing his eyes, Arthur takes a deep breath to focus his mind to the most pressing matter at hand—the intruders at their house. Deep breath, he calmly instructs himself, _very deep breath_.

“Okay,” he says, opening his eyes and directs his gaze to Eames. “Now we should… what the fuck are you doing?!”

Eames looks up from his position, bending at the waist as he tries to shove the unconscious, bleeding intruder into their walk-in closet.

“What? You expect me to leave him bleeding there on your precious wooden floor?” Eames asks.

“That’s our walk-in closet,” Arthur reminds him, “My wardrobe! My… suits and…”

“Just think of this as the payment of my suit that you ruined with that little bomb,” Eames says as he locks the guy inside their closet. Giving Arthur his haughty look, he says, “My Ozwald Boateng suit, you remember?”

Staring at his husband in incredulity, Arthur nearly shouts, “This is not the time to play childish vengeance.”

“And this is not the time to think much about your suits,” Eames says, smirking. “Come on, darling, let’s show those pricks who’s the real McCoy.”

Before Arthur can say anything more, Eames has already exited their bedroom with his gun raised and his body devoid of clothes. Feeling torn between trying to warn Eames about his nudity and the urge to join him, he can only spare a few seconds before his feet bring him to follow Eames.

“William,” he hisses at Eames when he sees him standing with his back pressed against the wall on the end of the hallway that leads to their bedroom. His eyes are watchful and his lips pressed determinately. He could make a very striking figure in some spy action movies if one ignores the fact that he wears nothing to protect his modesty.

“Three people at least,” Eames says.

“More than that,” Arthur replies. Without prompting, he finds that his body has moved to a perfect position to watch Eames’ back and cover every point of attack that might come at them. “The guy who shot us earlier, he did it from the house across the street. That means there’s a possibility that they have surrounded the whole block. I think we first need to…”

“There’s one!” Eames says suddenly before he jumps from his partially hidden position, releases some shots, rolls on the carpeted hallway, and hides himself on the corner opposite Arthur.

It’s a pretty admirable feat, actually. In some universe where cool guys in suits and sunglasses could fight a machine gun without getting his suit scratched or his sunglasses falling from his eyes, such move might even get some standing ovation. But in reality, it’s a pretty stupid move to make, and Arthur lets Eames know about his opinion by glaring at him.

“William!” he hisses.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Eames says, smirking at him, mistaking the harsh note. “Though since there’s no scream I think I’ve missed…”

“Of course you missed. Your aim is awful…”

“You never complain about my so-called aim last night when I make you scream in our bed.”

“Be serious!” he snaps. “Okay, so… we need to formulate a plan.”

“I already have a plan,” Eames says. “You see some guy, you shoot the guy. Pretty easy.”

“But…”

“Bet I could score higher than you, baby,” Eames says with a grin before he’s dashing off, leaving Arthur to gape at him in disbelief. His disbelief only rises when he sees Eames slide off the stairs on his naked ass as if he has no shame. Or perhaps Eames really has no shame. He knows that Eames can be so reckless at times, but he just can’t believe that his husband can still behave like that when they’re facing the real danger of being killed or at least inconveniently wounded.

“Put on some fucking clothes!” he shouts after his husband, past caring if his voice might let his enemies know his position. Realising how that statement makes him sound like hypocrite when he considers his own unclothed state, Arthur makes a brief detour to their bedroom to grab a pair of briefs and put them on.

That being done, he readies his gun and exits the bedroom. His eyes sweep the seemingly empty corridor as he carefully makes his way, cautious of any sound or sight of movement that might catch his senses. He can’t see anyone—not the trespassers and not Eames.

Downstairs, his mind tells him. He’s just about to head to the stairs when the sounds of gunshots reach his ears. They came from the general direction of their kitchen. Arthur tries to ignore the twinge of panic that tugs at his heart at the possibility of Eames getting shot to focus on more important matters like trying to find their assailants before they find him.

So, he thinks, where should he start? Should he head downstairs? The sound of gunshots means that there’s at least one of those guys downstairs, in their kitchen, but Eames has already covered that part. But there’s a possibility that there are more. Should he help his husband? But what if there are also some of them on the second floor? If he goes to help Eames, they would cover less space, and there would be in a single place—all the easier for those guys to surround and ambush them. It’s better to stay separated, but where should he check first?

Just who the fuck decided they should build this large house with many rooms anyway?!

When he’s still busy thinking over the possible course of action, a movement on the corner of his eyes catches his attention. Suddenly alert, he points his gun and shoots twice. The bullets are ricocheting across the walls of the corridors as if mocking him, and he curses.

Next time, he thinks as he runs after the target, they should buy a house that doesn’t have too many walls to disrupt his shots.

\--

Eames, meanwhile, is busy clipping in a new magazine—that he takes from the oven—to his gun. He hums softly as he hears the sound of gunshots from upstairs, knowing that it surely comes from Arthur.

“Show them how well you can handle your gun, darling,” he whispers softly as he slips some magazines into the back pocket of his trousers—Arthur’s trousers, to tell the truth, but those are the only pair he could find lying on the stairs so he can’t really complain. It’s better to wear Arthur’s trousers—tight as they are—than running around naked and risk having his balls freezing in the cold morning air.

Another round of gunshots is heard while he’s clicking the safety of his gun off. He has had an encounter with one of their assailants himself. He didn’t manage to take him down, but at least he knows that one of his bullets is now residing in the poor guy’s shoulder. And, no, that’s not because he missed aiming at his heart. He _did_ aim for the shoulder.

Whoever says that his aim is awful could shut their pretty little mouth, thank-you-very-much.

He’s only about to go and resume his search for the trespassers when his gaze lands on their open window. From their kitchen, he can see the backyard of their house. He can see their nicely trimmed grass and white picket fence. And he can see a stranger with something that suspiciously looks like a very big, very sturdy, and very mortally-challenging bazooka partially hidden behind the bushes. And he can see really well when the guy points his weapon at his direction.

Upon facing situation like that, even the best of assassins is allowed a moment of panic.

With a loud “Oh, fuck!” Eames runs out of the kitchen, just a moment before the whole kitchen cabinet and all of his beloved tea sets contained within are destroyed to smithereens. The force of the explosions smacks him against the wall and the last thing he thinks before blackness consumes him is ‘now he can’t really complain about my curtain getting away from this unscathed’.

\--

The explosion shakes the walls quite a bit, making Arthur stumble in his step. His eyes widen as he realises that the sound is coming from their kitchen. He has a great conviction that Eames is in their kitchen.

At times like that, ‘thinking rationally’ is something that only happens in fiction. At the prospect of finding his husband lying in a bloodied mess on the kitchen floor after being victim to the explosion, Arthur spares no time to think and heads straight to the stairs.

At least, that’s his intention, until someone stops him. Or, rather, a hot bullet grazing his upper arm stops him.

Hissing in pain, he turns his body and releases a shot in reflex. He doesn’t need to see, his instinct is leading him. And judging from the scream that follows, his instinct is still doing him good. He hopes that it will slow his assailant down so he can go check their kitchen downstairs and…

Fuck.

He stares at his gun as a sudden realisation comes to him.

He’s low on ammunition. He needs to go to his working room. He cannot face anyone with a gun which only has a single bullet in it. But that means going to opposite direction from the kitchen. If Eames really does need his help, his detour for more ammo would slow him down and who knows what he would come to when he finally surveys the explosion. But going there without ammo means suicide.

Arthur curses and when he’s still pondering over which course of action to take, a man in suit appeared from one end of the hallway. The man calmly points his gun at him and Arthur knows, without needing to turn around, that there’s another man in similar position standing on the other end of the hallway. He sighs, hating himself and his profession and the fact that he has no mean of communication with Eames whatsoever until he could find himself in this situation, before he lowers his gun and watches the guys walking near.

No matter what movies tell you, there’s no way someone could overpower two guys with loaded weapon simply by fistfight. Arthur is still rational.

He’s just annoyed, though, that those guys look so savvy with their pristine suits and sunglasses—who the heck wears sunglasses indoor anyway—while he looks like some savage from faraway island in nothing but his briefs.

\--

When Eames opens his eyes, he realises three things. One, his head is pounding like one hell of a motherfucker. Two, he’s lying on Arthur’s lap with them both already dressed haphazardly. Three, they’re in some moving vehicle which windows are tinted so dark they could not see outside.

Those things make him frown. Things don’t look good from his point of view. Especially when he remembers about those guys who sneaked into their house and made their beautiful little house in the suburbs look closer to resemble the leftover of some air raid.

Wincing as he tries to sit up, he feels Arthur’s hand gently supporting his nape, helping him to sit up straight on the seat beside him. Scrunching his face, half because he’s in pain and half is his way of saying ‘what the fuck happened’ without words, he directs his gaze at Arthur.

If he wishes for some form of sympathy from him, his wish is quickly diminished when he takes notice of Arthur’s hardened expression.

“Er,” he says, “what happened?”

“What happened, William Thomas Philip Eames, is some guys kidnapping us, our house destroyed to ruins, you being an idiot, and we being taken to God knows where,” Arthur says with his harsh clipped tone that he often uses to bitch at his assistant.

Eames is not having his best of times, and having Arthur not only failing to sympathise with him but also seem keen to bitch at him only makes it worse.

“Excuse me,” he says coldly. “I can see about the guys kidnapping us part, and the part about our house being destroyed, but why is it connected to me being an idiot?”

“I told you we need a plan,” Arthur snaps at him.

“You’re too anal,” Eames mutters.

“ _Organised_!” Arthur’s narrowing his eyes. “You’re always the first to break the team. You never listen to what I have to say. Like Christmas, like our anniversary, like the time you forgot to bring my mother’s birthday present.”

“Your _fake_ mother’s birthday present,” Eames corrects him. “And no, Arthur, you don’t want a team. What you want is a servant for hire.”

“I want someone I can _count_ on.”

“Arthur, there’s no air around you anymore,” he sighs.

Arthur scowls. “Oh, okay, what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“That means there’s no room for mistakes, no mistakes whatsoever. No spontaneity. Who can answer to that?”

“You could at least try to listen to my plan.”

“Oh, so you think your plan would spare me the fate of getting blown up by some bloody bazooka?”

“We would be coordinated at least…”

“Brilliant!” Eames snaps. “Coordination, right. At least I have a valid reason why they managed to get me. You? How come mister sharpshooter can be so easily defeated by a bunch of amateurs?”

Arthur’s eyebrow twitches and Eames hears a faint mumble that suspiciously sounds like ‘run out of ammo’ and ‘worried about you’.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“I got… panicked,” Arthur says with a grumble. “There was an explosion… and I had a suspicion that you might be involved in the explosion and, well, it might have clouded my judgment a bit so they could take me when I was unaware…”

Eames is still a bit miffed, but even he could not maintain his annoyance when he sees Arthur uncomfortably refusing to meet his eyes. Sighing as he realizes that they are having that stupid ‘old married couple’ domestic snit again, he reaches out to grab Arthur’s hands. Holding said hand in his grasp, he smiles at him.

“So I guess you do love me,” he says. “More than you love your gloxinia, seeing that here I am with you while you leave your gloxinia behind.”

Arthur pretends to scrutiny him closely.

“Well, who might have guessed?” he says. “It seems sometimes it does need a direct hit to the head to correct your brain.”

He laughs and is about to kiss Arthur when someone yells from the front of the car.

“Can’t you fuckers back there shut your fucking mouth?”

“Who _are_ you people?” Another voice chimes in, clearly confused.

“Shut up!” Arthur yells back.

Blinking, Eames gives Arthur an arched eyebrow. “Who’s that?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and answers, “Our kidnappers.”

“The amateurs?” Eames exclaims in mildly affronted tone. And he’s justified to feel affronted. Those guys—their kidnappers—are really just a bunch of amateurs. They don’t even tie them up properly, only tying their hands in front with zip ties and letting their feet free without any restraints.

“They don’t really appreciate being called ‘amateurs’,” Arthur tells him. “They tried to strangle me when I called them that.”

Eames clucks his tongue. Reaching out, he caresses Arthur’s cheek, clearly having no intention to follow Amateur-A’s order to shut his mouth.

“My poor baby,” he says. “What have they done to you?”

“Nothing, really,” Arthur says. “They tried to strangle me, and failing. I tried to kick them on their balls, and succeeding.”

He snorts. That’s definitely his Arthur. He puts his tied hands over Arthur’s head to pull him closer, and he finally kisses him. Who gives a flying fuck what those amateurs think?

The car swerves and Eames curses as that makes him lose his balance and forces his lips apart from Arthur’s.

“Hey, you, we all know you’re amateurs at kidnapping, but couldn’t you please get your heads together and try not to get us fucking killed?” he shouts.

There’s no answer coming from the front seat and Eames grumbles. His grumble only dies down when Arthur pulls him down until they are somewhat horizontal on the seat.

The amusement he feels when he catches Arthur’s devious expression can somewhat make him forget his annoyance toward their captors.

“Why, Mr. Eames,” he whispers, “that was so naughty of you.”

“I merely want to resume our previous... engagement,” Arthur replies. “Shall we, Mr. Eames?”

He lets out a laugh before they proceed to ‘resume their previous engagement’. And if he makes sure not to keep his voice down, or if Arthur blatantly refuses to hold back his moan, well, no one could blame them, really.

“Well, this is quite fun,” Eames says, breaking off their kiss with a loud smack.

Arthur only hums his agreement, which he takes as his cue to continue.

“I never got kidnapped myself, you know,” he says, reminiscing his old days. “Kidnapping people, yes. Keeping them hostage, sure. Sometimes being an assassin requires you to be able to do those things. But to get kidnapped myself? This is my first time...”

“So in a sense you’re a virgin,” Arthur says with an amused snort. He buries his face deeper to Eames’ chest and sighs in contentment.

“Right. So if we fuck now, it would be like... second first time?” he said. “And it would also be our first time fucking on the backseat.”

Arthur stares at him in shock. “We never fucked on the backseat?”

“Actually, we have, but it was such a long time ago,” he says. “Want to relive that? Our first backseat sex after we reconciled?”

“Want to commemorate it?” Arthur asks.

“Why, you bring a camera with you?” he asks back.

“No, pity,” Arthur says.

“Yeah. I kinda wish one day we could show the photos of this day to the kiddies and told them ‘this is from the time when your daddies got kidnapped by some very incompetent kidnappers’.”

“Kiddies?” Arthur asks harshly. “Who said anything about kiddies?”

Eames is all for answering—and perhaps somewhat making Arthur squirm a bit more with his answer—but the van suddenly stops and he finds himself suddenly grow alert. It seems that they have arrived at whatever place their kidnappers are taking them.

Turning his face a bit, he trades a few seconds of meaningful gaze with Arthur before they come to their silent agreement. Straightening themselves out on the seat, they wait for the door to open. Eames knows that Arthur feels the same way with him—he must be curious about the identity of the person behind this. Who has staged this whole kidnapping business? Who could it be, to know their identities as assassins, to know where they live, to order a little squad of people (amateurs as they are) only to capture them without making any attempt to kill them?

Whoever it is, they want them alive. Which means, they surely want to talk with them. About what, he doesn’t know.

“If this turns out not to be good, or interesting,” Eames says. “I’ll surely kill the bastard for making us miss the opportunity to have some nice old fashioned backseat sex.”  



	9. 'Till Death Do Us Part

It’s a warehouse. A dilapidated warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

“Typical,” Arthur says as he and Eames are ushered out of the van. Two of the kidnappers are pointing their guns at them, while another one is in front of them. There’s another group of men in black shades and suits in another car behind them. But they are mostly the injured ones.

Eames sends Arthur a questioning glance.

“Using a dark abandoned building to keep the hostages,” Arthur explains. “Doesn’t that sound so typical for a kidnapping situation? Makes you think if these amateurs’ boss is as amateur as his henchmen.”

The guy behind him pokes Arthur’s back with his gun to shut him up. Arthur sends the guy a cold glare and he backs off a little bit.

“You know, I’ve taken my hostages to a more comfortable place than this,” Eames chimes in, “Once I even took them to some seaside on the Mediterranean.”

“Jesus Christ…” one of the kidnappers mutters, massaging his temple.

“Before you killed them, you mean?” Arthur smirks.

“Yeah. It’s like, ‘make them happy before they die’ kind of thing, you know,” Eames says, stopping his tracks when they enter the warehouse. It’s dark and Arthur isn’t sure if there’s anyone else there. “Oh, and I got to find that lovely beach house… you know, the one I took you to for our second summer getaway,” Eames adds before turning to Arthur.

Arthur has been trained to understand what certain body languages mean in their line of work. When you can’t speak at all with your mouth, speak with your eyes. One intense gaze and small flick of the head from Eames is all Arthur needs to understand that this is the one chance they have to turn the table, so to speak.

“Shut up!” shouts the guys behind Arthur. “Or I’ll-”

Arthur spins around, sends a sharp kick into the guy’s stomach. The guy drops his gun, doubles up in pain, and Arthur uses that chance to hit his upper back with his elbows and knees the guy in the balls. In the meanwhile, Eames uses his tied hands to punch the armed guy behind him in the jaw—Arthur can hear a small crack. Eames grabs his collar and flips him onto the floor. Arthur almost pities the guy when he coughs blood as Eames kicks his stomach, hauls him up, and slams him to the nearest concrete pillar.

But Arthur doesn’t have time to mull over whether or not he has to pity one of their kidnappers because the last guy, the one in front of them, notices the fight and he quickly slips his hand into his jacket, taking out his own gun, and aiming it to Eames. Arthur takes the gun on the floor and fires directly to the guy’s knees.

The gunshot and pained scream echo through the empty warehouse, no doubt alarming the men outside. Eames lets go of the guy and his eyes are searching around the warehouse. There are quick footsteps coming from the darkened side of the warehouse and from outside as well. They are trapped and they have no time to find a place to hide.

“Arthur!”

Arthur throws his gun to Eames’ awaiting hands (later Arthur would ask himself how he knew Eames was asking for his gun and why he’d given him the gun he has and not telling him to search for another one instead) and bends over the injured guy, takes his gun from the shoulder holster before taking a position behind Eames’ back, facing the warehouse entrance, while Eames covers the other side.

Even with both his hands tied, Arthur still keeps his hold on the gun tight. He’s breathing hard and he can feel Eames’ back pressed against his. They don’t speak, there’s no sound other than their quick breaths, the pained grunt of the three guys they’ve beaten and the footsteps echoing in the warehouse. They wait.

Suddenly a voice echoes from the back of the warehouse. “Mr. Eames, it is lovely to see that you’re still good at beating up people.”

Arthur doesn’t recognise the voice and he can’t turn around to check who it is because that’s when three men enter the warehouse, guns aimed at him. They’re clearly outnumbered and it’s impossible to get away now.

He feels Eames’ back stiffened. “Oh, fuck.”

“Who is that?” Arthur asks.

“You…” Eames pauses, “you’re that fish-face guy!”

Arthur frowns and hisses back, “What the hell are you talking about?”

The three armed men are closing in on both of them. Arthur presses further back, but Eames seems to be rooted on the spot.

“It’s that Robert Fischer guy,” Eames tells him.

“What?” Arthur pushes Eames so they switch places and now he’s looking at the one man that he—and Eames—supposed to kill a couple days ago. Fischer is giving Arthur a pointed smile. Arthur clicks his gun and aims it to Robert’s head.

“What is he doing here?” he asks Eames sharply. “Isn’t he supposed to be under FBI custody?”

“How do I know?” Eames replies and curses under his breath.

“Drop your weapons and let’s have a talk, gentlemen,” Fischer says, holding up both his hands to show that he doesn’t have any weapon with him.

“Tell your men to drop theirs first,” Eames says, “and untie us.”

Fischer’s gaze shifts from Arthur, and he nods. Arthur hears the clatters of Fischer’s henchmen dropping their guns and he reluctantly lowers his too, but still gripping it tight. Eames has moved to Arthur’s side, and once one of the henchmen cuts the zipties, he takes Arthur’s hands and rubs the red marks around his wrists.

“Are you all right?” Eames asks in low voice.

“I’m okay,” Arthur murmurs. He’s looking at Fischer over Eames’ shoulder suspiciously. “We have to get away, William. We can’t trust these people to not kill us. He knows who we are. ”

“Let’s just hear what he has to say first, okay?” Eames gives Arthur’s wrist a pat and then he turns back to face Fischer who’s looking at them as if he’s watching a daytime soap opera. “How did you know my name?”

“Please,” Fischer says, “have a seat.”

Fischer’s henchmen have moved their injured friends aside and brought three rackety chairs, putting them in the space between Fischer and Arthur and Eames. Arthur is still glaring daggers at Fischer as he buttons up his shirt and then sits on one of the chairs.

“The gun please, Mr. Eames,” Fischer says to Eames, and then he looks at Arthur and raises an eyebrow, “You too, Mr. Eames.”

“Fuck.” Arthur leans in to Eames and whispers, “He knows.”

“Apparently,” Eames grits out. He drops his gun on the floor, beside his foot, and Arthur does the same.

After a few moments of glaring at each other—Arthur hoping his glare could kill Fischer in an instant, and Eames gives the calm man a calculating look—Fischer sighs.

But it’s Arthur who speaks first. “Who are you exactly?”

“Robert Fischer,” Fischer answers shortly. “My father, Maurice Fischer, is your boss, Mr. Eames.”

“Stop calling me that,” Arthur grits out.

“His father is your boss, Arthur?” Eames asks, “Your boss ordered you to kill his own son?”

“I don’t know who Maurice Fischer is,” Arthur says, “As far as I know my boss name is Peter Browning.”

“Uncle Peter is only the second-in-command as my father is currently ill,” Fischer explains. “He’s the one who usually gives you orders.”

Arthur doesn’t like where this talk is going. Seven years, and he never knew who his boss really is. Arthur thinks that being The Organization’s best assassin would’ve earned him at least the boss’ trust. Then again, he should’ve known that being in this line of business, no one can guarantee what one says is the truth or just a lie. Take himself and Eames for example. This train of thoughts doesn’t make him feel better.

“So your ‘Uncle Peter’ wants to kill you then?” Eames crosses his hands. “Why did my boss want you dead, too?”

Fischer sighs and puts his hands on his lap, his expression still stoic. “The Company’s boss, Mr. Saito is…”

“Wait,” Arthur interjects and turns to Eames, “Your boss is Saito? That eccentric conglomerate who bought an airline a couple of months ago?”

“He is _eccentric_ , as you said,” Eames answers shortly before he puts his attention back to Fischer. “Why did my boss and your father’s second-in-command want to kill you? Why did they target you?”

“The truth is,” Fischer says, taking out a slip of paper from his pocket and shows it to Arthur and Eames, “this is the real target.”

Fischer flicks the photo to them and Arthur catches it. The slip of paper turns out to be a photo of him and Eames. Arthur recognises the photo as a candid picture of them during their wedding reception in Eames family manor’s garden. In the picture, he and Eames are clinging to each other, smiling widely, as Mary and Amelia trying to get Arthur to dance with them.

“We’re the target? What do you mean, we’re the real target?” Arthur asks. He gives the photo to Eames and he really, really wants to grab the gun on the floor and shoot Fischer.

“Your bosses knew that you’re married,” Fischer says, “that’s the reason why you both were given the same order to kill me.”

“You were just a bait,” Eames murmurs, he’s still looking at the photo.

“You were just a bait to get us kill each other,” Arthur adds, finally realising what Fischer’s role, “just because we’re married?”

“Not exactly. There’s more to it than just the fact you were not supposed to marry your enemy,” Fischer explains, as he leans back to his chair. “Mr. Saito proposed a plan to Uncle Peter, something that my father would never agree to if he were still healthy and didn’t often lose his mind to medication. They are planning to merge the agencies as one. They want to create an integrated wide scale professional intelligence service.”

“…A what?” Eames asks.

“An integrated wide scale professional intelligence service,” Fischer repeats.

“Forgive me, Mr. Fischer, but I think we need specificity about that,” Arthur says.

Eames frowns, “Specif…?”

“Specificity, dear.” Arthur adds the term of endearment with a hiss. “You were saying?”

“In short, your bosses want to merge The Organisation and The Company as a single agency,” Fischer continues.

“And what does that have to do with them making us the target? Why did you set us up?”

“Technically, your bosses were the ones who set you up.”

“Let’s not think of technicality now and give me one reason why we must keep listening to you instead of killing you,” Arthur warns, “you are, after all, still our mark.”

Fischer sighs, and Arthur is sure he’s rolling his eyes. “Take that deep mistrust off of your brain, Mr. Eames. We talk business now.”

Arthur curls his fists tightly, and then he says to Eames, “I don’t like him.”

Eames raises an eyebrow and Arthur thinks the gesture sort of means he’s saying ‘well, duh’. “Why?” Eames asks instead.

“He used ‘off of’ in his sentence,” Arthur says. “That’s grammatically incorrect.”

“You dislike him not because he’s a manipulative bastard who kidnapped us but because he uses extraneous prepositions?”

Arthur blinks, surprised. “I never guessed you would know about extraneous prepositions.”

“Your condescension is much appreciated, thank you, Arthur,” Eames huffs.

“And he called me Mr. Eames,” Arthur adds, crossing his hands and scowls at Fischer.

“But you _are_ Mr. Eames,” Eames exclaims.

Before Arthur can retort, Fischer claps a couple of times, taking Arthur and Eames’ attention back to him. “Ladies, ladies, please. Can I have your attention?”

Arthur thinks his blood pressure will be in danger of exploding if he stays any longer than this with Fischer. “Don’t you fucking dare call me ‘lady’, asshole.”

“Your potty mouth will not help you much in your current predicament.” Fischer uncrosses his legs and stands up. With his hands on his back, he starts pacing around, “All right, here’s the thing. As I was saying, Uncle Peter and Mr. Saito set you up because they knew you’re married. They planned to integrate and they thought the fact that you both being the best in each of your agency, but also married to each other, will not bode well with their plan. They think it will become a liability within the agency. You would become each other’s weak point if anyone knows who you really are.”

Arthur knows this so well. For years, he’s been drilled to not let anyone identify him during missions. Not only will it risk the agency, it will also risk the people around him. It’s the reason why he never told Eames about his real job. And it’s the same reason why he still followed his boss’ order to ‘clean the scene’ even after he knew it was Eames who ID’d him.

“They set up a plan to see if you were as competent as your records made you to be,” Fischer continues, “I became the bait because neither of you knew who I really was.”

Arthur can’t help but feel utterly betrayed. He and Eames almost killed each other because their bosses wanted to test them.

“It’s only a test then?” Eames asks, annoyed.

“In a way, yes,” Fischer says. “It’s more to see if you would still follow orders if your mission was to kill the person closest to you. Looking at both of you now,” he pauses and looks at them with a small smirk, “I think I can safely say that you don’t exactly plan to continue on following the order.”

“And that’s why you kidnapped us?” Arthur asks, “To kill us because we didn’t follow orders?”

Fischer chuckles, “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Eames.”

Arthur still follows Fischer’s movement with his eyes. He can’t help it. He feels there’s something… dangerous lurking within the guy. There’s something in his eyes which makes him itch, aside from the fact that he’s practically the one who nearly made them kill each other. And there are still many questions swarming his mind, most of them start with ‘why’.

“I want to make a proposal,” Fischer continues. He stops walking and smiles, staring at them intently with something manic on his face. “I want you to work for me.”

Whatever Arthur expects to hear from him, it’s surely not that.

“What?” Eames exclaims in incredulity beside him.

Fischer shrugs. “You’re good. You’re both good. And I want only the best to work for me, so how about it?”

“Wait,” Eames says, putting both of his hands in front of him as if he’s trying to block Fischer’s words. “Let me get this straight. You want to recruit us?”

“Yes,” Fischer says calmly.

“And so you give us a test to see if we’re good enough,” Arthur continues.

“That’s true.”

“And your test involves making us try to kill each other,” Eames concludes with a disbelieving frown. “Let me ask you one question, Mr. Fish-face. Are you fucking mental?”

“Ah, no,” Fischer says, still with his smile intact. “I prefer being called ‘creative’. And, again, you cannot fully put the blame on me for this little deception. You can blame Mr. Saito, considering he’s the one who first came up with this idea.”

“About that,” Arthur says, snatching the opportunity to voice out the thing that has been plaguing his mind. “Why did you stage this whole thing? Why did you plan this so thoroughly? To test us, sure you’ve said that. To recruit us, you said. But why do you want to recruit us? Why do you want to merge the two agencies together? Because that sounds so inconceivable, at least if we take into notice the standard operating procedure that my organisation possesses, the one which was penned by your father, the head of the Organisation, himself. Why would you want to merge the two agencies which, as far as I know, have been rivals in business? Unless, of course, there’s something… let’s say, fishy, going on.”

He has a brief feeling of satisfaction when he notices how Fischer seems to flinch at his question. Then he seems to take a breath and when their gazes meet, Arthur could see the look of resignation there.

“You’re right,” Fischer says. “The rule of the Organisation does say that we work alone, never get involved with other parties, and keep the secret. But that’s what my father believes. Now he’s too sick to maintain the Organisation anymore. You have seen it for yourself, Mr. Eames, how it’s now my uncle who deals with business, but he’s not the one who will inherit the position once dear Father leaves us. I will.”

Fischer resumes walking slowly, seemingly deep in thought.

“You see, I have a different vision with my father. I want to make… a better Organisation. And I know to achieve that, we have to gather forces beyond our little niche, regardless what my father and his pride might say on that matter,” he says. “When I lead the Organisation, I expect it to follow my vision. Coincidentally, my uncle shares the same vision with me. So when Mr. Saito proposed the idea, well,” he spreads his arms wide for emphasis. “How could I reject it?”

“So you planned to merge the two agencies, behind your father’s back, against his wish, when he’s dying somewhere and knowing nothing bout this whole thing,” Eames says. “That’s sneaky. So very sneaky until I almost admire you.”

“Yes, I do have a feeling that you would appreciate it, Mr. Eames, considering how you have gone behind your husband back killing people for a living while keeping up appearance as some normal art curator,” Fischer says. “Both of you, actually. One sneaky person to another, you have my respect.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says tightly. “And what makes you think that I would readily pledge my alliance to you?”

Fischer laughs. “Mr. Eames, seriously, are you trying to test me? If you pledge your loyalty to my father, he’ll ask you to kill your husband. If you pledge your loyalty to me, I’ll make you work with your husband. Surely you can decide which one benefits you more.”

“I can decide to walk away from here without pledging my alliance to anyone,” Arthur says.

“We both can,” Eames pips in. “Sorry, one sneaky man to another, you know how foolish it is to give your trust so easily like that.”

“But what if…” Fischer says. “You don’t have that choice?”

Arthur frowns. He can sense the air in the warehouse shifts. There’s some sense of apprehension coming to him and instinctively, he moves closer to Eames.

“So I ask you once again, Mr. Eames...” he says, pauses, then looks at Arthur, “And you, Mr. Eames.”

Arthur’s eyebrow twitches. He has a suspicion—a damn reasonable one at that—that Fischer keeps calling him ‘Mr. Eames’ just to spite him.

“Let me go so I can kill you right now,” he says hotly.

“Baby, please,” Eames says in his soothing voice that only manages to rile Arthur further. “You're going to suffer hypertension. Let the gentleman here finish.”

“Don't fucking call me 'baby'!” he hisses at Eames.

“Gentlemen, if you would forget about your domestic scuffle,” Fischer says, breaking the heated glare that Arthur throws to Eames. His voice makes them both turn their faces to regard him. “I’d like to present you with two options. You can accept my offer and join me, or you can reject it, but thing is…”

An ominous clicking sound is heard and Arthur finds himself staring at the barrel of a gun which Fischer points at them. He whispered a breathy ‘fuck’ as Fischer continues. “No one can say 'no' to me and walk away alive. Please think of my reputation.”

“You’re really one damn annoying arsehole,” Eames says. “But, you see… if you ask Arthur, he’d say I’m the biggest arsehole he’s ever met. And so…”

Arthur watches in bemusement as Eames proceeds to undo his watch. He shows the watch to Fischer and says, “You have gun in your hand; I have this mini bomb in my hand. Should we ask the mirror on the wall, now, about who’s the biggest arsehole of all?”

Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise. He wonders if Eames is merely joking but, at times like this, he risks too much to be joking. A mini bomb, he thinks. Eames has a mini bomb in him. Eames has something that can very well pass as a weapon in his hand and he didn’t tell him, instead he lets them be dragged into this situation.

“You keep a mini bomb inside your wrist watch?” he nearly shouts.

Eames blinks back at him in surprise. “You didn’t know? I thought you knew, and that’s why you made me wear that. You’re the one dressing me up, after all, what’s with me being unconscious and all.”

“I didn’t…” Arthur tries to say. “William! That’s the watch I gave you last Christmas!”

“So?”

“You think it’s okay to tamper with it and install a mini bomb in it?”

Eames shrugs. “Seemed like a good idea that time. And this might be our ticket to freedom so save your queen out for later, okay?”

“Oh my God,” Arthur says with a sigh. He runs his fingers through his hair and stares at Eames disbelievingly. “This is so clichéd.”

“Seconding the sentiment,” Fischer says, though his eyes—and gun—are still trained to Eames’ direction.

“Oh, please,” Eames says with a sigh. “You’re one to talk, Mister, seeing that you’re the one starting this with this old warehouse and evil son charade ending with you-come-with-me-or-you-die bullshit. You have a talent to create some B-grade overly clichéd spy movie.”

Fischer smiles tightly at Eames. “I appreciate the compliment.”

“Wasn’t meant to be one,” Eames says back with a smirk.

“So what now?” Fischer says, echoing the very question that Arthur has in his mind. “We’re in stalemate here, you with your bomb, and me with my gun. Should we keep this until one of us break?”

“No,” Eames says. Then, without fear, he turns his gaze from Fischer to look at Arthur. His gaze is so tender and serious at the same time. “You decide.”

“What?!” Arthur’s mouth exclaims.

“You decide, Arthur,” Eames says. “Because, as the guy put it, we’re in stalemate here. Now we’re in equal position. Whatever choice you pick, it will be because you really want it, and not because this son of a bitch forces you to choose it. So pick your choice.”

“And what about you?” Arthur asks.

“Arthur, darling, if there’s one thing that I learn from this whole thing,” Eames says, “it’s that there's nowhere I'd rather be than here with you. Whatever thing you choose, I’ll follow you.”

Arthur blinks. For a moment he has a suspicion that Eames was merely joking, but he knows that it cannot be. Eames was every bit serious when he said that. Those words get into his heart and he feels like kissing Eames for being such a sweetheart while at the same time he also feels like giving him a very good punch for being such an idiot. How could he trust such an important decision to him? How could he calmly smile and believe that he would be able to decide? How could he love him so much until he can say that he would follow him wherever he goes?

But Arthur knows that if the situation is reversed, he, too, would trust Eames to make a choice for both of them. And now with Eames trusting him so, he has to make the right decision for both of them. He has the power now. It’s in his hand. He can decide where their life should head to. He can decide their future. He can—he thinks as he stares at the two men still brandishing their weapon—decide their fate.

He closes his eyes, thinking about all the things in every perspective he can think of. He thinks of his job. He thinks of the Organisation he’s working for and all the guys he met there. He thinks of his life and what he has done throughout the years. He thinks of Eames, of their marriage, of the smiles and fights and laughter and everything that they share between them. He thinks of ‘them’.

He opens his eyes with a smile.

And he makes _their_ choice.  


* * *

  
Time, as it turns out, really could change everything.

Eames sits on his plush chair, the usual chair he usually occupies whenever he has his session with Miles, and thinks about how time has really changed many things—things between him and Arthur, to be more precise. He can still remember the first time they went to their session, all strung nerves and anxious disposition. But now, look at them, so relaxed as they sit side by side in front of their counsellor, who seems to stare at them intently. They’re practically _glowing_.

Now Eames doesn’t find the white painted walls oppressing. Now he doesn’t find the air suffocate him. Now he doesn’t really feel disturbed that some stranger is asking about his private life with Arthur—after all, at this point, Miles is hardly a stranger to them.

He still hates the idea of having to go to some marriage counsellor, though.

“Mr. Eames,” Miles says, smiling at them. “Nice to see you again. I see that now you decide to attend this session as a couple.”

He can see Arthur shrugs beside him, and though his line of vision doesn’t really enable him to see it, he knows that Arthur has a small smile on his lips. “It saves the gas.”

Miles gives a polite chuckle. “Indeed. So, gentlemen... how have the past couple of weeks been treating you?”

That question makes him turn his face a bit to seek Arthur’s gaze. Their eyes meet and, there, he’s right. Arthur does have a small smile on his lips, the smile that can always make Eames’ heart beat a tad faster.

“Nicely,” he says, still staring into Arthur’s eyes. “We’re good, right?”

“Splendid,” Arthur says before he turns his gaze to Miles. “Really splendid.”

“That’s good to hear,” Miles says. He’s smiling, and Eames really can’t see anything in his smile else than sincerity. “You both do seem in a better mood. Want to share what prompts this change?”

Eames laughs out loud. “We had a fight.”

“A very big fight,” Arthur says. “The biggest we’ve ever had. But after that... we started to...”

Eames notices Arthur staring at him, frowning as he searches for the right word.

“Reconnect?” he suggests. “Both physically and mentally?”

Arthur chuckles briefly. “Yes, I think you can say that. We started to reconnect. We... talked about things that we’ve kept hidden from each other.”

“We share,” Eames contributes to the conversation, “our secrets, our feelings, our desire and plans. We decided, then, that we don’t want to let our differences get in the way of our relationship. We are still going strong, aren’t we, darling?”

Smiling to Arthur, he can see the amusement on his face. They can still remember their big fight, so big it was that their house is now on its way to be demolished. And they can still remember how they ‘reconnect’ afterward, the magnificent sex they had. The secrets spilled freely as they snuggled in their bed. Also the love they can feel between them as they laughed, talked, and kissed.

“Yep,” Arthur says softly. “Though I won’t say that we’ve managed to overcome all of our differences.”

“Oh, come on!” Eames exclaims indignantly, somewhat knowing what Arthur is going to say.

“We still can’t agree on many things,” Arthur tells Miles somberly. “Like curtains for example.”

“Why are you always bringing the curtains to our every conversation?” Eames asks with a frown.

“Because you always try to make me agree to decorate our new house with those curtains you pick on every occasion,” Arthur says.

“Because they are lovely,” Eames says.

Arthur rolls his eyes and regards Miles with his deadpan expression.

“I think I must love him so much,” he says. “Because he can make me so angry until sometimes I want to strangle him yet I still live with him.”

Miles gives Arthur a conspiratory smile. “From what my daughter told and showed me, I have to say I’m rooting for you. Even this old man feels that paisley is too retro.”

“Hey!” Eames protests loudly. “You’re not supposed to be taking side.”

“Ah, right, my apologies,” Miles says though the smile the man still sports makes Eames believe that he’s not really sorry. “So you mentioned something about new house?”

“Yes, we redid the house,” Arthur says. “You can’t imagine how happy I was after finally being able to throw away those curtains.”

“You did?” Miles seems surprised.

“Yeah, yes, we redid the house,” Eames says, even though ‘redid’ certainly isn’t the right word to describe what they have to do for their house. “Have to demolish the whole thing.”

“Yes, it’s like we’re starting from the very beginning again, you know.”

“We think there’s a plenty of room for us to grow after our big fight so why not start it from rebuilding the house together?”

“And we’ve started working together. There are actually so many things we have in common that we never knew we share before.”

“I see,” Miles nods, “That’s a good thing. What kind of job are you two doing then?”

“If we tell you what it is, we’ll have to kill you,” Arthur answers with a purely innocent smile.

Miles blinks. He blinks exactly four times before Eames breaks the ice and says, “He’s joking.”

After a few moments of awkward silence, Miles asks, “So, on a scale of one to ten, how happy would you say you are now?”

“Fifty,” Eames says confidently.

“He can’t count really well,” Arthur says apologetically.

“Hey!”

Miles nods. “It seems that you’ve re-found the trust in your relationship and overcome the obstacles. Mr. Eames, Arthur, I’m pleased for you. I think-”

“Ask us the sex question,” Eames interjects. He gives Miles a cheeky grin.

When Arthur hisses, “William!”, with a barely concealed smirk of his own, Eames winks.

Miles clears his throat, “All right, well, how often you-”

Without waiting for Miles to finish his sentence, Eames holds up both of his hands, “Ten,” he says.

Arthur snorts and says, “Add another ten.”

“Now you can’t count _too_!” Eames says, triumphantly.

“You rubbed off on me,” Arthur shrugs.

“Indeed,” Eames agrees solemnly. “Is that considered extraneous preposition, though?”

“I don’t think so,” Arthur says with a smirk full of meaning.

“Because we both know how you hate… extraneous preposition,” Eames says.

“Yes,” Arthur says, “but I really don’t hate you… rubbing off on me.”

“I did that all right… multiple times,” Eames purrs, leaning closer to Arthur, who can’t seem to stop biting his lower lip, perhaps trying to stop the grin that’s threatening to bloom from appearing.

“In multiple ways.”

“Sometimes more than one at once…”

They stop when Miles clears his throat again loudly. He looks at them sharply, his glasses perched low on his nose. He smiles and then he asks, “Should I schedule another session for you?”

Eames turns to Arthur, and he feels his heart swells to see the wide smile there. And it's not him who makes the first move, nor it is Arthur. Their hands just meet in the middle. Arthur traces the ring on Eames’ hand with his thumb, and Eames, eyes still locked with Arthur’s, says to Miles,

“No, no. We're good now.”

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Art illustrations by: [blulious](http://blulious.livejournal.com). [Here](http://fukyahtableflip.livejournal.com/5233.html)'s the art masterpost.
> 
> Faux-movie poster & fanmix by [coconabanana](http://coconabanana.livejournal.com/). Fanmix can be downloaded [here](http://community.livejournal.com/thewritingshack/22169.html).


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